


Death, and Other Origin Stories

by houseofhebrideanblacks, Thestralsofspinnersend



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Absinthe, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Anorexia, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood supremacy, Breast cancer, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Coming of Age, Death, Disordered Eating, Dragons, Eating Disorder, First War with Voldemort, Gaslighting, Gore, Growing Up Together, Hogwarts Era, Hogwarts Forbidden Forest, Imperiused Sex, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Indoctrination and Cult Induction, Internalized Homophobia, Light BDSM, M/M, Marauders, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Marauders' Origin Story, Ministry of Magic, Minor Character Death, Misogyny, Multi, Origin Story, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Self Harm, Sirius Black Speaks French, Skin picking, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Violence, Werewolf Culture, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), the werewolf eats things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2021-04-06
Packaged: 2021-04-18 08:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 185,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21794068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofhebrideanblacks/pseuds/houseofhebrideanblacks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thestralsofspinnersend/pseuds/Thestralsofspinnersend
Summary: To make a Grim, you bury a live dog in a churchyard before any person is laid to rest there.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 52
Kudos: 159





	1. A Nightjar Calls

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel to our Blood Magic trilogy. 
> 
> Will be updated sporadically through 2020. It will be another long fic with a slow burn. We intend to intensively discuss a lot of potentially triggering issues - particularly, eating disorders, child abuse, child sexual abuse, child neglect, unhealthy coping mechanisms and bdsm, particularly as a means for creating a space to work through trauma. We will update the tags as we continue. 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read what we've written.
> 
> Update: If you'd like to hear us podcast this story (we read a chapter then discuss), please listen along at: https://open.spotify.com/show/5vv5FtUL13cgIzDXnZtNey or https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-forbidden-forest/id1510127666

Sirius had his hands deep in his pockets, thumbs hooked over the frayed edges. He doesn’t watch the ground while he walks. He doesn’t have to. Despite the spring rains, the wet earth, strips of mud and clay interspersed with errant stones and roots of trees, he doesn’t expect to slip. To fall.

He trusts each footfall. Effortlessly. In a way that some people never learn how to trust, yet he executes it with a practiced fielty.

The rains help to muffle each step, and his progress down the steep path, beyond the Quidditch pitch and through the long grass, still sodden from the earlier shower, goes entirely unnoticed.

Well. It was the early hours of a Sunday morning, after all, who would be awake to notice him? And the moon was but a half forgotten sliver on the eastern horizon, only now gaining her vantage above the trees. He may as well have been invisible, black hair pulled back into a bun, his jeans wet below the knee, artfully cuffed above black boots.

Sirius stops at the hillock beyond the pitch. It’s his last vantage before he descends into the forest, before he slips between the gnarled elms and towering oaks, before finding his way along the mountain springs that feed the copse of birch. He watches the moon, hanging there, suspended, a cradle, similarly open to the sky above. Corners sharp. Like his.

They regard one another. A nightjar calls.

There’s an unseasonable warmth to the breeze that rustles the tops of trees and lifts the errant strands of hair that Sirius has tucked behind his ear. He closes his eyes and turns ever so slightly into the wind, breathing deeply. His skin is soft in the light reflected from the moon, but his angles, all of his sharp moments, cast shadows, long and deep.

In a moment, he’s disappeared between the trees. The nightjar calls again.

In the shadow of the forest, Sirius slows his pace. He reaches out along the rough stretches of a dogwood that’s grown sprawling and carefree in the understory, and the way he runs his hand along the bark is familiar. Like a greeting. He pauses and leans against the old tree, and his head is slightly cocked to one side, as if he’s listening. As if he can hear something beyond the rippling calls of frogs and buzzing insects, the soft hoots and trilling calls of the forest’s nightly chorus.

He moves away to the west, finding his way down a buck trail that’s half overgrown in the flush of spring. Here, his hands trail along the edges of sprawling forest grape leaves, streaks of dew leaving long, wet traces along his forearms. There’s a little thistle in his hair.

The moon is higher now, more distant, and Sirius has since found his way to a small glade in the west. The grass is high too, peppered with cornflowers and queen anne’s lace and other small blossoms that have since found a small home in the open field.

He lays back in the centre of the clearing, flattening the grass around him, his view now only of the distant stars above and the tips of the crescent moon. Foxgloves, heavy with drops of the earlier rain, hang like bells above him, and Sirius lays, not minding the water that has slowly been seeping into his t-shirt. It’s cool, the water, and it grounds him.

The breeze has remained warm, and the chorus of frogs has only grown louder in the clearing. There must be more water nearby. A stream. A pond. He lays with his hands behind his head, knees bent and wide.

Time passes, and nightjars sing to each other. Sirius lays and looks at the stars. Occasionally he lifts his chin slightly to the wind and breathes deeply, and when he does his eyes flutter closed for a second.

Eventually, he speaks.

“It’s rubbish not being able to hide from you, you know.” He twirls the stem of a forget-me-not between two fingers.

“I’m sorry, Sirius.” The voice is like sand running over stones in the peaceful softness of the evening. Rough and chaotic. Like it’s been made of a million different things that were never meant to exist together and have since fallen apart.

Like a real apology. Like a wound.

Sirius scoffs and flicks the forget-me-not away, sitting up, t-shirt clinging to the lines of his shoulders, his spine, wet from the earth. His back is to the visitor.

Sirius can hear him move into the clearing from the edge of the trees. He can smell the fern he’s brushed aside, the moss beneath his shoes. Oxfords. Light brown, but so faded. Size eleven. Sirius can imagine all their creases and cracks, the silly design along the toe. He knows the right is worn more than the left, but only slightly.

“There’s no need to apologise, Remus.” Sirius can feel his hackles rising beneath the t-shirt, and he nearly lets his deep sigh turn into a low, throaty growl when he can hear those stupid shoes moving closer, not soft on the earth like Sirius, but overlarge and ungainly. He hears him nearly trip as his toe catches a fallen branch.

Sirius rolls his eyes, finally turning to look over his shoulder. He watches the other man with a shrewd expression, eyes narrowed.

The interloper is tall and poorly proportioned, sandy hair and skin that’s streaked and marred with puckered flesh. His eyes are beautifully green, flecked with brown, and he’s got freckles across his rounder cheeks. He walks with his eyes down, and his hands are splayed, anticipating another miscalculation. A fall. It rounds his shoulders. And thus, his spine. Everything about him seems bent and burdened, like it’s been sanded down, grated. He doesn’t have the sharpness of Sirius. He has the look of a fuller moon.

“If there wasn’t, I don’t think you’d be out here sulking. Getting all wet and sullen.” Even the way he speaks, he curves around the words. Sirius doesn’t want to hear the smile in his voice. As if tonight was a night for teasing. For softness.

The other man is meters away. Sirius can smell his aftershave and his regret in equal measure. He doesn’t find it endearing. Not tonight.

“Maybe it’s not about you, Remus. There are other reasons to be sullen, you know. The moon doesn’t just revolve around you.” Sirius had turned back to the west as he spoke, facing the endless stretch of forest and distant mountains, the sharper moon and the sky.

There’s silence for a moment. Sirius breaks it with a resigned sigh.

“That was cruel of me. I’m sorry.” His apology doesn’t sound nearly as broken, but the anger and the sharpness has edged away from his voice. He’s suddenly less cutting. More human. 

“Sirius, I– “

“Don’t, Remus. We don’t have to do this. We are friends. It was a mistake to think you wanted more. That we… I didn’t mean anything by it. We don’t need to pretend there’s something here. For fuck’s sake, you’re not even gay.”

Sirius watches the sky. He sits cross legged and picks another forget-me-not to roll between his fingers. All of the trust he had in his steps has fallen away with the warm wind from the east. He looks suddenly so vulnerable, and all of his posturing and his anger is so clearly just barely covering all of the hurt. All of the fear.

All of the times he’s been abandoned.

He watches the sky and tells himself to wash it away. To let it soak into the earth with the spring rains. He does his best not to let anything show, and his face remains placid as he looks at all of the stars. Namesakes. Legacies.

Sirius hears the Oxfords make their way to just beside him, and Remus folds down onto the ground, long legs crossed, palms flat to the earth as he lowers himself to the wet grass.

“Don’t be like this, Sirius.” His voice is so quiet and soft and pleading, and it makes Sirius feel as though he’s being unfair. As if all of his feelings are too big. As if all of him is too big. Too much. And then he feels guilty. And ashamed.

“This is the only way I know how to be, Remus.”

The placidness in Sirius’s face gives way to a deep and cruel sadness, and his eyes shine with the weight of it. Of being Sirius. Of being gay. Of being too much, with too many feelings. Of being the one who always ends up here. With apologies. Regrets.

Sirius feels a warm hand around his, fingers threading between. Palms together. Remus’s heart is pounding. He can feel it.

He can feel all of it. The fear. Just like his. Big and flighty. He looks up and sees that Remus isn’t even looking at him. He’s staring to the south, wetting his lips. His other hand is trembling.

“Remus.” Sirius can feel himself melt away. He forgets sometimes, how hard it was. How hard it was to admit, even to yourself, that you want someone. Someone this close. A man, even.

“Fuck, Sirius. You don’t know what it’s like.” He’s still looking away and the tremor is in his throat and around every consonant, but it spares the vowels and they sound like breathy exhales. They remind him of the scattered moments when Remus has let Sirius touch him.

Sirius is squeezing his hand without meaning to, gaze locked on the outline of Remus’s jaw in the feeble moonlight.

“I’m not safe. Not for you. Not for anyone. No one should be this close to me. And yet. You won’t give up. You don’t ever give up.” He feels how it breaks him to say those words. How it must have been breaking him for years. Wearing on his very bones. But he doesn’t let go of Sirius’s hand.

“I’m not scared of you.” He’s said it before, but it feels more real here and now, in the wet grass and the warm wind. With the frogs still calling their mates and the nightjars singing away the loneliness.

“I’m not scared of you.” He says it again. Because Remus still isn’t looking at him. Because it’s the truth.

“I’m scared. Of this.” Remus finally turns, and his green eyes with brown flecks are big and wide and he doesn’t say he’s scared of Sirius, with all of his big feelings and intensity, but it’s written all across his face, inked along the scars.

They look at each other. Sirius, with his haughty face and angles, hair pulled up in a bun, is the first to speak again. 

“I’ll be careful with you.”

“Sirius –“ But before Remus can rebuild his walls, Sirius is leaning toward him, watching him all the while, eyes flickering between his gaze and his mouth.

“I’ll be careful.” It’s whispered just between them, just before their lips brush together, soft and tentative. The moment feels delicate.

It’s Remus who finally closes the gap between them, and he’s finally let go of Sirius’s hand because suddenly he needs more than just their palms flush together. Remus kisses him, and it starts so soft, but quickly builds into something so hungry, something Sirius knows he can’t control.

And Remus is leaning toward Sirius, laying him back. And Sirius has his hands wrapped up in the cable knit sweater, pulling him closer, wanting the weight of his awkward, lanky frame. Wanting the feel of him. And all the while Remus can’t stop kissing Sirius. 

It’s their first real kiss.

They have touched before. Behind the faded tapestry with a herd of unicorns that hangs on the second floor corridor, the one that leads to McGonagall’s office. They had ducked behind it to hide from unknown footsteps one night in their sixth year, and in the dark, pressed together, Sirius had slipped his hands around Remus. Around the softness of his stomach, and the scars that flitted across his abdomen. They had pretended it was because the little niche was so small for their nearly adult selves, that’s why Sirius had let his fingers press along and then below the hem of Remus’s trousers, why he’d been flushed and panting. Why they’d stayed there long after the footsteps had died away, Sirius’s breath hot on Remus’s shoulder.

That had been the first time it had felt different. To Sirius, anyway, but he could feel the change in Remus too. They had found other excuses to be close after that. There were several late nights where they’d fallen asleep sprawled across Sirius’s bed, only to awaken in the small hours of the morning with legs intertwined, bodies close and breath mixing.

And then there was the detention they’d had together in October of seventh year. In the dungeon, cleaning cauldrons late in the night. Unsupervised. Sirius had taken off his shirt, sweating with the effort of scrubbing the pewter clean. He’d caught Remus staring, told him to come touch him if he’d like. And Remus had. Carefully at first, but then more boldly, tracing the band of Sirius’s pants.

He’d asked if he could see him naked. If he could touch him. Just to see how it felt. And Sirius had let him. He had leaned back against the potions bench and let Remus undress him, slide his hands over his thighs and then his cock. He’d been still and patient and kept his hands gripping the bench behind him. And Remus had made him come, just like that. They didn’t talk about it afterward.

Then the cold night they’d snuck out to the Quidditch pitch on the new moon, an empty sky, laying together beneath the goal hoops. They’d held hands, and Remus had asked Sirius if he was gay. How he had known. What he felt when he looked at men. They had parted ways over the Christmas holidays after that. Quiet and unsure.

Just before the next full moon they were together, the hunger moon, Remus had come to find Sirius in bed. He had been rough and insistent in the way he touched him. Had him naked in his hands. In the way he’d fumbled in the dark and the quiet. The way he’d made Sirius come with his fingers in his ass and his mouth around his cock.

Again, they didn’t speak after. Sirius didn’t know if it was the just the moon, playing tricks and pulling the tides, and if he was just caught in the undertow, swept out to sea. Or, if it was something else. Something more.

He had avoided Remus since. Avoided him, until tonight. Until the first sliver after the new moon. And Remus had avoided him, too. They couldn’t seem to look at each other without being overwhelmed. Without hunger. As if the moon had lingered.

Until now. Until he was kissing him.

Until he had his knees pressing Sirius’s legs apart so their stomachs were flush together. Until Sirius could feel what’s building between them. More than just the hardness between their legs, more than something primal and consuming.

Remus’ softness is coming apart, and he pants against Sirius’s neck, his palms splayed wide on the wet earth beneath him, against all of the weight pulling him down. Anchoring him. Tying him to the wet grass and the man beneath him.

Sirius is rolling his hips up to meet the hardness pressed against him. He can feel whimpers and pleas collecting in his throat, but he’s too busy dragging his tongue across the sunken valley above Remus’ collar bone. Tasting him. Drowning in him. Begging him to fall. To fall apart. To be broken and unthinking. Like Sirius.

Remus is the one to break the tension. He pushes himself up, sitting back between Sirius’s still splayed knees.

Sirius does whine, this time, and his hands come up, flat and insistent on his stomach, sliding down to the outline of his cock. He misses the pressure. The weight. It’s as if he thinks his hands can replicate it. Can keep him held back. Held down.

Remus is watching him. There’s no smile or regret or shame left. He looks hungry. There’s a calmness that has taken him. A dangerous, methodical calm. He reaches up, pulls the sweater from his shoulders and starts undoing the buttons of his shirt. One by one. Eventually, he pulls it from his skin and lays it aside. There’s no more thoughts of the stupid Oxfords and the awkwardness of his frame. There’s no more room for thoughts like that.

Sirius is watching him, hands still pressed against his cock, whimpers still spilling over his lips. He watches every little movement, watches the fabric peel away. He drinks in all of the scars across the man between his knees, reads them. A history.

A survival.

“I’ll be careful.” Sirius finds himself saying. Remus looks up at him from the watch he was slowly removing from his wrist, green eyes flecked with brown.

Remus is leaning forward again, a hand sliding along Sirius’s stomach, lifting his shirt from his skin, pulling it up and bunching it beneath his arms. Sirius is watching him, mouth parted on panting breaths. It’s mesmerising, seeing Remus like this. Sirius hasn’t noticed that he hasn’t moved his own hands. His right is gripping his cock through his jeans.

Remus reaches down and his warm hands close around Sirius’s wrists, slowly guiding one, then the other, up above his head. “Don’t move.” Remus whispers in his ear, pulling his wet t-shirt the rest of the way up over his head.

Sirius can feel his eyes go wide a moment, and he wants to complain. To ask why. To laugh off the idea that he shouldn’t move. That he should be given free access to Remus and his newly naked skin in the starlight. To demand it.

But he doesn’t. He lets Remus drag his fingernails down his bare stomach and to the line of his pants, while Sirius grips his own hands together above his head. He thinks about being still and leaning against the potions bench. He thinks about the sureness of it. The way Remus had felt emboldened by his stillness. By his offering. By his feeble attempts at control.

So he grips his own wrists, and he lets his own fingernails leave marks for how tightly he’s focusing on not moving. On not letting go. On not following Remus’s gentle touches against the sharpness of the wings of his pelvis.

Instead, he lets his hips rock. He lets himself groan. He closes his eyes and arches himself against the soft, wet grass. It’s only when Remus has undone his belt buckle and unzipped his jeans that Sirius falters, that he curls back toward the sky, his right hand coming down to cover Remus’s, which is so torturously just above his cock.

Remus stills and stares back up at Sirius, who’s whines are low and guttural and breathy. His bun has come loose, and more errant strands of hair have found their way down to edge his sharp features, which are so much softer than before. Softer in the way his cheeks are flushed and his mouth is halfway parted. The way his eyes are big and pleading.

“Sirius.” And Sirius feels nearly pathetic for how quickly he faltered. How little control he has. How Remus can undo him, just so.

“Fuck.” He lays back, hands back up behind his head, body stretched beneath the moon, skin soft in it’s light. An offering.

Remus moves away from him a moment, sitting back. Regarding him. Sirius feels ridiculous. Like he’s being punished. It’s making him feel embarrassed and ashamed. He misses the sureness of his own footfalls.

Remus rests his hands on Sirius’s ankles. Against the lacing of his boots, his knees still bent. He’s still watching Sirius. Watching the way he struggles, the way he’s now purposely looking away. The way his cheeks are flushed more now, even. And how the redness is creeping along his neck.

Sirius can feel his gaze and his quiet consideration. It’s maddening. Even more maddening when he feels Remus start unlacing one of his boots. Slowly. Carefully. With decided consideration. He unlaces both. Then pulls them from his feet. Removes his socks.

The wet grass on the soles of his feet is distracting. It seems to cool him. Ground him. Far more than the warm wind from the east had. He doesn’t feel as desperate and unsure. He lets Remus take his time moving back up to his jeans, which he pulls down his hips. His pants come with them. Sirius is lifting his hips with his bare feet on the cold, wet earth, and seconds later he rests his bare ass down, too. And there he is, naked, hands still held above his head.

Remus stands. He only takes a moment to drink in the scene before him; Sirius, laid out, hands above his head, cock still hard and ruddied, a smear of mud along his left side, before moving to undo his own belt. Slip his own trousers and pants down from his own hips. To remove those infuriating Oxfords.

Sirius watches him intently. He can’t feel the cold, wet earth beneath him as much as he can feel the saliva pooling in his mouth. The way seeing Remus like this, hard, naked, exposed. The way it’s burning his skin. The way it’s eating him alive.

“I want to fuck you.” Remus isn’t looking in Sirius’s face when he says it. He’s looking down at Sirius’s body. At Sirius’s cock. At the way his knees are still drawn up and splayed to the sides. He’s looking down at him and he’s palming his own hardness.

“I want to fuck you and I don’t want you to move from there. Do you think you can do that?”

Sirius doesn’t think he can do that. He won’t be able to. Won’t be able to resist grabbing those shoulders while he pushes inside. Won’t be able to stop himself from running his fingers into his hair and grabbing and pulling and using Remus as an anchor. As leverage. He won’t be able to stay grounded and wrapped up in everything they still haven’t spoken about between them.

“Yes.” He says. Because he can’t say no. Not now. Not with his cock this hard, flush against his stomach. Not with his bare ass on the earth and his legs wide and waiting. Not with this kind of need piled up within him. Not with the chance he will fail. He will fail and Remus can punish him.

Punish him and fuck him into the wet earth.

The last thought makes his cock twitch and seep pre-cum into the fold of his hip. He nearly moves. Nearly reaches down to wet his fingers in it and run them across his frenulum. He doesn’t. He grips his own wrists.

Remus kneels between Sirius’s bare legs. He lets both of his palms slide across the expanse of Sirius’s ribs, the dip down to the flare of his hips. His skin is so bright in the dark. Remus leans down and licks the wetness that has seeped from the head of Sirius’s cock, and the sound Remus makes isn’t human.

Sirius keens and lifts his hips. “Fuck me already, Remus.” And then a moment’s pause before, “Please.”

The begging is new. It feels strange. Not like himself. Like he’s someone else, now. Someone apart from his daytime self. This person who wanders out into the forest in the dark of a sliver moon – who trusts his footfalls and trusts this man. Who lays naked on the cold earth before him. Who can’t think for want. For need. For servitude of pleasure. Who begs.

This is not the same Sirius who walks in daylight. Confident, arrogant Sirius. Sirius who is snide and conniving. Who is sharp and witty and excellent in his charm work, magic and otherwise.

Sirius can feel how Remus smiles into the soft skin of his belly, and his breath is warm like the wind from the east.

“It’s going to hurt.” Remus has slipped his hands around behind Sirius’s hips and is gently kneading his ass. Grabbing handfuls of flesh and spreading them apart. There’s a slow rhythm to it. It’s gentle and insistent.

It’s maddening. It’s nowhere near what Sirius needs.

“Please, Remus.” Sirius wants the pain, too. He wants to feel every second of the stretch of Remus. He wants it to ruin him. To be as painful as the waiting for it. All these months. Years. All the fantasies. He wants to feel them all in the first time they fuck. Every moment should match the agony of waiting. Of waiting for this man. For this moment.

He wants to feel it for days. He wants to feel broken by it. He wants it to haunt him.

Remus is kissing along the inside of his thigh. Too soft, Sirius thinks. He knows why Remus won’t bite him, won’t lend his teeth to the flesh of his inner thigh. Won’t mark him. Sirius wonders for a moment what he can convince Remus to do to him closer to the moon. Closer to the wolf. But, not tonight. Tonight he said he’d be careful. He’ll keep his word. He’ll try, anyway. He grips his wrists. Hard.

Remus is lifting Sirius’s hips up, pushing his thighs back, staring down at Sirius’s ass before him. Spread. Waiting. Eager.

Sirius can feel the cold of the dew that’s mixing with sweat along his back. He winds his fingers into a clump of long, wicker grass, thick and strong. He doesn’t want to disappoint Remus. He doesn’t want to move.

He can feel Remus running the head of his cock along his ass, can hear the whispered charm for lubrication, one they’d all learned together, giggling and red-faced, in the library in fourth year. He wants to laugh, but maybe that’s just the nerves. They both pause. It breaks the tension for a moment. Suddenly, it’s just the frogs and the nightjars and their small, shallow breaths in the clearing. In the wet grass. In the warm east wind.

“Ready?” Remus speaks first. His eyes are bright and clear and the head of his cock is pressed up against Sirius’s hole. He’s pushed Sirius’s thighs back toward his chest. The muddy sole of one of Sirius’s bare feet rests over Remus’s shoulder. His other leg has fallen to the side, knee splayed out, but he doesn’t feel uneven. He feels pliant and malleable in Remus’s sure hands. He isn’t tremulous at all. The thought calms Sirius.

Sirius breathes out, nodding. He tightens his grip in the grass, the long, sinewy strands wrapped around his fingers. It’s damp against his palms.

Remus presses forward, leaning his weight into Sirius. He feels the slide of his cock into the tight ring of his ass and it **hurts**. Stings. For a moment, they lay still. Sirius has his eyes squeezed tightly shut and he has to concentrate on relaxing. On not curling up, pulling away. Not letting go of the wet grass.

It’s Remus’s voice that finally cuts through the pain. “Fuck, you feel good.” The tremor isn’t in Remus’s hands, but it is in his voice. He sounds as pained as Sirius feels. He sounds as broken. Sirius opens his eyes to look up at him, to memorise that sound. The words. The tremor. The pain. His cock is throbbing with interest. With the rush of blood. With the praise falling from Remus’s uncoordinated lips. 

Remus has his eyes closed and he’s turned his head to kiss along Sirius’s calf. To mouth at it. Wet and unthinking. “You feel so good.” He says it again, mumbled and half incoherent. He looks inhuman. Sirius is hard. Through the pain and the fullness and the inexorable press of Remus inside of him, he has to focus on not reaching down and stroking his cock. Remus presses further, eyes closed and his brow creased in desperate concentration.

Sirius has done this to him. The pain is ebbing away into the night, just like the cold, just like the winds of winter. The soreness gives way to fullness. Gives way to the hungry insistence of Remus and his cock. The pain is replaced with something secretive and tantalizing. Something full of heat. Something that’s smouldering. Burning. And Sirius is letting it consume him.

“Sirius.” It’s a growl. Frustrated and pained and oh, so broken. It’s like music.

Sirius stares up at Remus and his wavering, snarling voice and his sloppy kisses and the way he can’t stop grabbing for his skin, touching and kneading and pulling it aside. The way he can’t help but groan as he leans a bit more against Sirius and his cock slides a bit deeper. Until his skin is flush against Sirius’s ass. Until there is no more depth. Until his cock is fully inside.

Remus lets his teeth drag across the skin of his leg, now, and Sirius can feel the ridges of his canines.

“Remus.” Sirius sounds soft and careful and quiet. Not like Sirius at all. Like someone new. Like someone no one would ever expect Sirius to be. Suddenly, there’s so much room for Sirius. For him to be everything he is, wide and resplendent beneath the wolf and the moon in equal measure. 

Remus’s eyes open at his voice. He’s still panting but he’s staring down at the man below him, the man he’s fucked into as deeply as he can. The man who has let him. He’s still and desperate and just so overwhelmed. It’s beautiful.

“Touch me.” Sirius says it less as a plea and more as an invitation. He wants them to come together. So they can be messy and untangled. So he can ruin all that control. So they both can fall to pieces together.

His words have the vulnerability of Remus’s earlier apology. The rawness. The qualities of a wound. Deep and painful and gaping open. That’s how Sirius feels when he asks for Remus to touch him. To allow him a glimpse of the pleasure. To let them both revel in it. In Sirius’s vulnerability and Remus’s fear. And Sirius’s big feelings and how much they rule him, even while he pretends to be king. While he trusts himself to never fall. Only to drown.

Remus brings his hand down and slides his rough palms over the length of Sirius’s cock. Circles it, like he would his own. The motion is unhurried, familiar. He lets it mesmerise him for long moments, and Sirius lets his head fall back, lets himself feel everything. All of it.

The pressure and the pleasure and the vastness of the sky above him with the cradle moon and the wolf kneeling between his legs and the nightjars and the frogs and the wet grass and the warm wind, all of it so desperate and beautiful and serene. And Sirius is panting and moaning and all of his pleasure seems to drift off into the night. And there’s no reason for him to be quiet. To not let every little feeling draw something from him, to make every exhale gorgeous and full. No need for him to silence himself. To reel himself in.

No, this moment is about expanding into the void. Into the space. The openness.

It isn’t long before Remus is rolling his hips in time with his palm and mocking the slide of his thumb with the slow press of his cock, fucking Sirius open. Sirius still has his hands wrapped in the grass, with his numbing fingers, relaxed a bit now, relaxed as his hips and his thighs, one still splayed to the side, one draped across Remus, nearly lazy now in the slowness of the sex. 

“I won’t break, Remus.” Sirius is bereft as Remus pulls back, slowly, carefully, with so much gentleness. He misses the pain. “You don’t have to be so careful. I’m the one who promised.”

Remus is looking down at him, tense and beautiful and trembling. His teeth have grazed rivers into the soft flesh of Sirius’s calf, and the hand not preoccupied with his cock, the one wrapped around his thigh, steadying his hips, those nails have left long marks across his flesh.

“Sirius, I-.”

“Fuck me like you mean it, Remus. Like you want this. With me. Like I’m not a mistake.” Their eyes lock on Sirius’s words. Remus is growling, his face darkening. Anger blossoms between them and suddenly the fragility of what they have, their friendship, something more, it’s bright and fearful between them.

Remus is folding Sirius beneath him on his next exhale, his hips pressing into him, hard and fast, fucking him properly. Fucking him into the earth. Fucking him like it’s punishment for making it real. For tainting their fantasy. For reminding each other there’s a world outside the forest. A world where they’re friends. Where Remus is straight. And so is Sirius.

He’s fucking him fast and hard and relentlessly and Sirius is breathless with it. Like he can’t breathe. Like he can’t think. Like he can’t feel anything but everything and nothing all at once. Mindless and broken and endless, here beneath the universe of the night sky.

Eventually his eyes are closed and the pleasure rolls over him in such relentless and all consuming waves, he can’t help but let go. Let go and drown. Remus stills.

He’s come all over Remus’s fist. He knows because he can feel the warm and wet slide of it along his softening cock. Remus has come, too. He can feel it, hot and decadent, seeping from him.

Because Remus has indeed ruined him.

They’ve ruined everything.

Sirius unwinds his hands from the grass. Remus is gone from the clearing before he can sit up.


	2. Hogwarts, A History

_ July 31, 1971 _

The cooling summer breeze drifted lazily down the quiet country lane, rustling the stately poplar trees that grew in neat lines along the road and in between the houses, demarcating where each yard began and another ended. The houses were quaint, quiet. Separated from one another behind the anonymity of the sentry poplars. A dog barked at the sound of a backfiring engine somewhere in the distance. 

It had been a hot, heavy sort of day, where the heat rose in hazy waves above the old grey tarmac and everything felt damp. The air was dense with humidity despite the cooling atmosphere of the coming night and the earth still radiated heat as the sun sank lower in the sky. Remus Lupin’s feet were carrying him down the road, back home, the dipping sun at his back. His worn chucks scuffed bits of gravel as he walked, counting the steps between each lamp post along the road. 

In his scarred and sun kissed hand, he clutched a battered old leather briefcase that swung like a metronome beside him with each step he took. His other hand sat under his chin, his thumb swiping idly at an old gnarled scar that ran from his bottom lip to the dip of his right clavicle. 

He had the look of a boy who spent too many days in the sun, the heat of the summer sinking into his skin making it deeply golden. The smattering of pink scars along his body standing out in stark contrast where it wasn’t hidden by long sleeves. For even in the warmth of summer, Remus Lupin wore long and oversized knitwear more suited to the snow and howling winds of winter. 

He had left home amid the shouts and angry torrents streaming from his parents' mouths, their vitriol and bitterness filling the small two-bedroom cottage, making his stomach clench with tension. He had slipped out into the morning sun unseen and unmissed by the drama that had unfolded around him. 

“You can’t keep _ doing _ this to us! You’re going to get him killed!” His mum had screamed from the kitchen where a spoon had clattered into the porcelain basin, beneath the little window framed in lace hangings. His dad had slammed doors and scattered clothing and odd bits in his wake— a framed photo fell from the wall. His long black work robes tossed to the floor in his agitated storming. 

“I’m trying to _ help _ him, Hope. We’ve been through this a thousand times— there’s nothing else I can do!” 

“_ Help _ ? Is _ that _ what you call this?” She hissed, stomping after him. The walls of the house rattled at her conviction, another photo fell from the wall. Remus had quietly packed his briefcase and pulled on his well worn green sweater. It had once been his dad’s, still much too big for his slight frame, made by his mum’s dutiful hands. 

“This isn’t helping, Lyall! This is _ snake oil _!” She shook an unmarked amber bottle of viscous liquid at him as Remus was passing their room. He was completely unnoticed on his way towards the front door. 

“How was I supposed to know it would do that?” Lyall shouted defensively, his face deeply lined and tired. His tie was slung haphazardly around his shoulders and his hair was dishevelled, more grey and thin now than the thick brown of his youth. 

“It _ melted _ the spoon, Lyall— and he was supposed to, what? _ Drink it _ ? This was supposed to _ help _ him?” Her voice was becoming lower and more dangerous as Remus crossed the neatly decorated sitting room. The blue sofas and large grandfather clock arranged around a low oak coffee table, an old gramophone in the corner with a neatly organised collection of records. His fingers brushed his mum’s old antique spinning wheel, the one she had inherited from her grandmother. The walnut wood was soft and smooth under his hand as he walked passed with pursed lips. 

His father spluttered indignantly. 

“You work for the Ministry of _ Magic _ and you didn’t think to test the rubbish you wanted to give to your son? You are _ unbelievable— _”

“You don’t understand! I wouldn’t expect you to understand— you’re not— you weren’t raised— you’re a—”

“Don’t you dare call me _ muggle _ again, Lyall Fawley Lupin, like you think that means I don’t know when you’re having the wool pulled over your eyes.”

Remus had turned the brass doorknob and stepped out into the rising heat of the morning as their yelling reached a crescendo. “I’m trying to ensure he has a future!” His dad boomed as, what sounded like, the glass vase on their chest of drawers shattered. 

He cut across the yard and strode down the familiar dirt path, worn with years of use, familiar under the thin tread of his shoes, towards the birch and elm woodland across the field at the end of the lane. The action was entirely automatic at this point. As an old and wise eleven year old, he knew it would put his racing mind at ease before he found sanctuary at the library on the main road. 

They hadn’t always fought like this, like they were at war over Remus and how best to protect him. They hadn’t always screamed at one another, broke things and promises, hurled insults and vases. They loved each other, Remus was sure, he had seen it before. Seen it in snippets over the years, the adoration that Lyall look at his wife with. The sly smiles of his mum when Lyall produced bouquets of flowers from nothingness or distracted her with twinkling bits of magic to steal a kiss from her unsuspecting lips, and the laughter that followed. 

His mind supplied the vivid memory of his mum in the kitchen, a cigarette in hand, twirling around as Lyall dipped her back. Both of them dancing barefoot in the small kitchen, lost in the moment, full of laughter. How their eyes had creased in smile lines rather than worries, in secret joys rather than the burden of terrible secrets. The reliable record player in the corner of the sitting room played at full volume as Remus had peered around the corner, watching them with a small smile of his own. Tapping his foot in time with Mungo Jerry. 

_ “... _ _ We're not bad people _

_ We're not dirty, we're not mean _

_ We love everybody but we do as we please _

_ When the weather's fine _

_ We go fishin' or go swimmin' in the sea _

_ We're always happy _

_ Life's for livin' yeah, that's our philosophy _

_ Sing along with us _

_ Dee dee dee-dee dee _

_ Dah dah dah-dah dah _

_ Yeah we're hap-happy…” _

He blinked the happy thought away, too much at odds with the increasingly frequent events of his morning. Now, now he just hated the things his dad brought home, all in an effort to help him with his condition. Balms, salves, potions, and powders. Years of it. Sometimes untested spells. More than once, he landed himself into the accidental magic ward of St. Mungo’s with his dad smoothly lying to the healers about his injuries and many scars while his mum stood there with pursed lips as she stroked his hair. It’s not that no one knew he was a— well. Some did, of course, but his dad, working for the ministry, was able to pull a few strings. In and out with few questions asked. 

Hoping now, hours later, his briefcase laden with novels brimming with adventure and danger, his sketchbooks overflowing and messy, the house would be silent once more. His stomach grumbled in protest as he kicked another rock. Their red mailbox came into view, slightly skew besides a large boxwood shrub in desperate need of trimming. 

Their front yard was unremarkable, shielded from the road by the ubiquitous line of poplars and dotted with a few apple trees, the ground beneath them barren but for the patchy growth of dandelions and dutch clover. His father had chosen it for its seclusion and privacy. 

He could hear his mother on the phone, her voice electric and irritated, as it often was when she sought refuge in the comfort of her fellow muggles. He pulled the front door open with a creak. 

“I know— I know— Ethel, you have no idea— I wanted to strangle him— he just won’t quit! And my poor baby, Remus, and his _ condition _,” her voice dropped to a whisper, as it always did when his misfortune was spoken about, “you know— and he just wants to help, I get it, what father wouldn’t? But Ethel, I swear to you, he’s gonna get my baby killed one of these days with these damn remedies. Remedies, he calls them, yeah. I don’t even know where he finds them. For the love of God, it smelled like engine cleaner—”

Remus walked passed the kitchen to see his mum in her pink house dress, perched on counter beside the open window, an ashtray balanced on her knee. The phone was propped on her shoulder as she took a long drag of a Marlboro cigarette. It was something she did after fighting with his dad, and Remus felt a strange and inappropriate sense of fondness for its predictability. He even liked the smell of cigarette smoke, sometimes. Particularly if he was feeling lonely, specifically when it mingled with her perfume and hairspray. The way it clung to her clothes for days after, he could smell it every time she brushed her stained fingertips across his face. 

He deposited his things on his quilted bedspread, torn for a moment. The need for food and the desire to dive into his new acquisitions from the library warring with one another. After a moment of dithering, he succumbed to the grumbling in his stomach despite the curiosity he felt for the dogeared copies of _ Slaughterhouse-5 _ and _ A Wrinkle in Time. _

Entering the kitchen, his mum looked up from lighting another cigarette, her green eyes searching his face. She dropped the phone against her collar bone to cover the receiver. 

“Hey baby, were you at the library?” She asked with a distracted and worried smile, reaching her hand out to stroke his hair in a familiar movement. They had identically round green eyes with brown flecks and a matching dusting of freckles across their noses. He nodded and offered her what he hoped to be a reassuring grin before scanning the kitchen hopefully. She hadn’t made anything for dinner, though it was long past the time anyone would hope to eat, with the now setting sun, bathing the kitchen in a deep pink light. 

“I know, Ethel—” She began again, replacing the phone against her ear and dropping her hand from his dark blond locks. She brought the cigarette to her lips, staining it with her faded pink lipstick, as Ethel’s nasally intonations escaped the old beige corded phone. His mum had insisted they get one installed when they moved in a few years back, claiming that she was isolated out here in the country. No friends nearby, and she couldn’t apparate anywhere without his dad around. It took much too long for Lyall to understand her determination for such muggle technology. 

Remus picked up an apple from the bowl and grabbed a nearly empty jar of crunchy peanut butter from the sparse cupboard. He was carefully cutting the apple into wedges, dutifully scooping out the seeded core, when a knock sounded at the front door. His mum hadn’t noticed. 

“Ethel— why do you think I haven’t done that yet, there’s no way!” She was saying with gusto, knocking ash into the glass tray on her lap. 

There was a second knock, more insistent than the first. Remus turned to look at his mum, hoping she wouldn’t ask him to get it. 

“Wait, Ethel, hold on. Is someone knocking?” She asked and Remus nodded with wide eyes before shaking his head preemptively. _ No _he mouthed pleadingly. 

“Go answer it, baby, please.” she smiled, “hold on, Ethel, there’s someone at the door— Coming!” She shouted at the third knock. “Go, please— no, Ethel, hold on— tell them we don’t want any, baby— what Ethel?”

Remus sighed heavily and put the paring knife back onto the cutting board. He made his way to the front door, through the darkening sitting room, past the spinning wheel, the silhouette of a tall man just visible through the stained glass transom. 

Opening the door, he was stunned into silence. The most peculiar man stood before him with half-moon spectacles in a pinstripe velvet suit, a floral carpet bag clutched in his hand at his side. He had a long, auburn beard heavily streaked in wiry greys and his eyes twinkled in the twilight of the evening.

“Good evening, Mister Lupin,” the man said kindly and with a wry smile as he extended a hand. Remus took it awkwardly, his mouth halfway to an unknown question, his mum still nattering unawares in the background. “My name is Professor Albus Dumbledore, and I wonder if you and your mother wouldn’t mind having a quick chat with me.”

______________

_ September 1, 1971 _

“Come along, your father said he’d be waiting inside.” 

Hope, with her worried green eyes and shoulder length strawberry blond curls, reached impatiently for Remus’s hand. He grasped it feeling jittery and uncertain. 

He wore his favourite hand knitted sweater, cadet blue with white and grey colour work. His black trousers were worn and patched in odd places and he stood in loafers with a patterned toe, better suited to someone twice his mother’s age than that of a meek eleven year old. He mussed his dark blond hair nervously to cover a smattering of faded pink scars on the side of his face, gripping his battered and worn briefcase in his other hand. He felt hot and sweaty. He just wanted to go home.

“What about my trunk?” He asked, looking back longingly towards the 1957 mustard yellow beetle whose passenger door he had just closed.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, we almost forgot the trunk!” She exclaimed, smacking her palm to her forehead before rushing back to the car and opening the boot. 

“Darling, can you go fetch us a trolley?” She asked as she began to extricate the large black trunk from the boot of the car with considerable effort. 

Remus dropped his briefcase beside his mum and reluctantly dashed into King’s Cross Station to retrieve a cart, noting as he went, other children, of varying ages and degrees of muggle wear, toting similar black trunks into the crowds. His insides were fluttering madly, and he felt wholly unprepared for the looming certainty of the day ahead as he trotted the cart back to the car. 

He helped lift the large luggage onto the rattling trolley and gently placed his leather briefcase on top of it, adjusting it slightly to fit in the very centre, distracting himself for a moment. His mum crouched down onto her heels before him, taking his hand into hers. She stroked her thumb over an old scar on the back of his knuckle, and looked up into his lined and scarred face, much too old and worn for someone still so young. 

“You have your_ Martin Migg’s _ , baby, and you have your ointments—” She was reassuring herself as much as Remus, and he nodded. She had railed against him going away to school. _ “You wanna send him off to Scotland where he’ll be surrounded by people who’ll hate him if they find out who he is?!” _She had shouted, over and over again in a litany of iterations. The fight that had ensued with his dad after Dumbledore left was seared into his brain. Not even his father’s silencing charms could prevent the muggle neighbours from calling the police to check on them. 

“I’ve packed you extra chocolates, but Madam Pomfrey knows you’ll need extra— afterwards, I mean.” Her eyes darted around as if scanning for eavesdroppers. 

“I know, mum.” Remus said, quietly, nervously counting the freckles across her nose. He wanted to memorise the way she wore her winged eyeliner and the exact shade of red lipstick she had picked out the morning. He took a deep breath and felt an ache from the familiar smell of hairspray and Marlboro smoke. He was terrified of leaving her behind. He had never faced a full moon without her.

“And the school has owls you can use, so you can write home whenever you want— so, you’d better write me every day.” She said, her eyes filling slightly with tears.

He nodded, feeling overwhelmed, refraining with all of his might from begging her to take him back home. But, his dad had wept with relief when he learned he could be a wizard, like him, one day. Lyall Lupin wanted his son to have a proper magical education, be like any other wizarding child, and he wanted his dad to be happy, so Remus held his tongue.

“And, if you ever want to come home,” she pressed, seemingly sensing his thoughts, “you just tell Professor Dumbledore, and he’ll sort you out like that—” And she snapped her fingers making him smile ever so slightly. “Never mind what your father says, you can always come home.”

He nodded again. 

“You’re going to have so much fun, and make so many friends.” She ran on of her hands gently through his messy hair, trying to straighten out the errant pieces. He ducked his head, not wanting his hair touched. 

“As long as they don’t find out,” Remus grumbled with a huff, tugging his locks back into place. He looked down at his mum’s hand over his own. She was so young, still, but her hands were worn years beyond what they should be. Despite her comfortable office job, the years of fibre crafts, of washing and carding wool in her free time, devotionally spinning yarn and reverently knitting endless sweaters and vests, had taken a toll on her fair skin. 

“Remus John Lupin, you look at me—” She squeezed his hands and he looked tentatively into her serious face, the green eyes searching his. 

“You are more than the full moon, my love. And, anyone who gets to know you would say the same thing.”

He nodded reluctantly, looking back down, his marred skin covered by her long fingers. 

______________

He spotted a family approaching the barrier, seeming to part the crowd around them with their disdainful and haughty glares. Through the throngs of people they waded with looks of profound disapproval on their faces, noses upturned and steps quickened. In the short time Remus had to study them, taken aback by their formality and austerity, he thought they looked like something out of one of the vampire romance novels his mum read— and wondered briefly if there were vampires allowed at school as well as, well, people like him.

The woman wore a long black velvet travelling cloak with a high lace neck and matching cloche and veil. Her husband was in a similar state of period wear, his wizarding robes billowing around him and a gold tipped walking stick in his gloved hand. Trailing after them, were two small boys with long black hair and fair skin. They were also wearing black travelling cloaks, as well as white gloves. Their dress shoes clicked loudly on the tiled floors and the older of the two was pushing a school trunk on a trolley with hard-to-suppress enthusiasm, despite the sombre attitude of his parents. Within moments, they too, were gone beyond the barrier, barely giving the statute of secrecy any consideration. 

“Hope! Remus! Come along.” His father, impressive in his ministry robes and travelling cloak, stood beside the barrier, glancing down at his pocket watch. His face was weathered and tired and he had an air of impatience as they pushed through the crowd towards him. Gripping Remus’s elbow by way of greeting, he ushered them through to platform 9 3/4 without prelude. 

Steam billowed around them as they appeared beyond the brick wall, adding to the frenzied environment of families seeing their children off to school. 

Remus saw a short blond boy awkwardly accepting his mother’s weeping kisses as she left bright pink lipstick marks all over his round and reddened face. He saw another boy, skinny with dark framed glasses and jet black hair being hugged in a huddle by his parents dressed in bright silks and gold jewellery. 

He saw older students showing the younger ones where to put their trunks, he saw formal wizard wear and working class muggles all interspersed as more and more students left their parents to get on the train. Remus was frozen with the reality that he, too, must get on the train. He too, must leave. His left hand came up under his chin and he began to pick at the old scar. 

“Write us when you get there.” His father said, with a gruff voice. “Listen to Dumbledore— and— and pay attention to the calendar— and—” he faltered, and squeezed Remus’s shoulder in lieu of further words. 

“I know,” Remus said. 

His mum burst into tears and hugged him. 

“He’ll be fine—” His father assured her, voice gravelly. 

“I’ll be fine.” He repeated in a voice that sounded stronger than he felt, patting his mum’s shoulder. 

_______________

A girl with long red hair came stomping into his compartment, complaining vehemently to a pale boy in her wake and Remus snapped his sketchbook closed fast as lighting. It was too much to hope he’d have a train compartment to himself the whole journey.

“The nerve of him! The arrogant toe rags!” She had been saying as she wrenched the compartment door open. “All I can say is that I hope we’re not in _ his _ house!”

Remus shoved his things away in a startled movement. 

“That’s what I was trying to tell you, Gryffindors are like that. _ Bullies _.” Said the sallow faced boy with lank black hair. He looked delicate and slightly ill, like a flower that hadn’t gotten enough sunlight. 

“Oh, sorry. Do you mind?” asked the girl with bright eyes and pale skin, when she noticed Remus sitting in the corner.

“No, not at all, please,” Remus said gesturing to the seats across from him, feeling supremely awkward. He shoved his briefcase behind him.

“Lily—” The girl said, extending her hand with confidence. “Lily Evans, and you are?”

“Remus,” He said meekly, shaking her hand. He looked towards the boy, “Remus Lupin.”

She nodded. “And this is Sev.”

“Severus Snape,” the pale boy corrected quickly. They didn’t shake hands. 

She smiled as if the boy had said something funny, or perhaps, Remus thought, it was an inside joke of some sort. 

______________

Marlene McKinnon, a short girl with a loud voice, came in at some point to take a poll on who thought pet toads were stupid, to prove to a young redheaded boy named Xavier Smith that his pet toad was pointless. Others came by, intermittently, as well. Students ran up and down the corridor of the train and prefects wandered about, shouting reprimands. 

Eventually, the lunch trolley came by, but he remained seated as Lily and Severus jumped up to buy themselves food. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” Lily had asked him. 

“I had a big breakfast.” He lied. Too nervous to stomach the thought of eating. Although Remus didn’t take any food from the trolley, he did immensely enjoy the educational lecture about wizarding sweets Severus had given to Lily. 

They were joined, sporadically, by other wandering first years throughout the journey; Mary McDonald introduced herself in a shy voice, her brown eyes were large and her hair pulled back into braids that were wrapped into a large bun at the back of her head. 

Quinton Mulciber ducked into their compartment to hide from a prefect just after rolling a dung bomb into a group of seventh years. The tall blond fifth year Slytherin prefect with sharp features and a decidedly austere countenance found him crouched below the glass window of the sliding door and dragged him out by his ear saying imperiously, “As soon as you’re sorted, I am taking five points!”

And a girl with bright blue eyes and brown hair had popped in to ask if anyone was interested in joining a gobstones club. 

It was dark by the time the train pulled into Hogsmeade station and they had long since pulled their school robes over their clothes. Everyone had begun to collect their things for the journey up to the castle. 

Remus followed Severus and Lily, hearing a loud voice from outside yelling, “First years! First years, follow me! Leave your trunks on the train! Leave your things! First years! Come along now!”

______________

“The hat has an inherent bias.” He heard Severus whisper to Lily beside him after the hat had sung an odd song. She giggled. “It was Godric Gryffindor's after all…”

Professor McGonagall glared severely at the first years and unrolled a long parchment. “Now, when I call your name, you’re to come sit and place the hat on your head. Once you’ve been sorted you may go sit with your house.” She cleared her throat. “Aubrey, Bertram.”

A short boy with a bowl haircut and overlong robes stumbled hurriedly forward to the stool and sat down, clutching the edge of the seat beneath him. Professor McGonagall placed the hat on top of his head, which sank down over his ears to cover his eyes and came to rest over the bridge of his nose. After a moment, the hat shouted, “Ravenclaw!” and the middle table to the right exploded in cheers. When Professor McGonagall removed the hat, the boy’s face was bright red and he scuttled quickly to an empty place at the Ravenclaw table where he was greeted heartily by everyone around him. 

Remus didn’t think he’d ever been this sweaty and clammy in his life and he felt foolish and stupid for having lugged his briefcase with him. He should have left it on the train like he was supposed to. 

“Avery, Leviathan,” A tall boy with dark brown hair falling in curly locks around his shoulders moved quietly forward. “Slytherin!” the hat had yelled, and the table against the wall, besides Ravenclaw broke into raucous applause. 

And the list went on. Jane Barnes became the first Hufflepuff. Susan Bennet, a Ravenclaw. Sirius Black, the boy with the vampire-esque parents, though he had removed his white travelling gloves and pulled his hair out of the velvet bow, strode confidently forward when his name was called. 

Sirius Black’s hair was striking against his pale skin and he winked at Severus as he passed them. Remus felt the corners of his mouth tug without his permission and he watched Professor McGonagall lower the hat over the boy’s head. It had barely touched him when it shouted, “Gryffindor!” without hesitation.

He heard a startled gruff from a few of the teachers behind him at the staff table that were quickly drowned out by jubilant celebration from the table on the opposite wall. There were whispered mutterings, open mouths and raised eyebrows among the Slytherins. The fifth year prefect with the blonde hair had brought a hand to her mouth. She looked fearful, but it all seemed to pass in a flurry of movement and Sirius took his place among the red and gold..

Lily Evans also became a Gryffindor, much to Severus’s dismay, who stifled a groan beside Remus. She shot him a sad smile when she took her seat beside Sirius as Adrian Gimble shuffled towards the stool. 

Davey Gudgeon became a Hufflepuff and Brenda Johnson a Gryffindor, and then, “Lupin, Remus.” 

He startled forward, clutching his briefcase in very sweaty hands. He felt foolish and awkward and his heart was racing as he sat down on the little stool. The whole hall disappeared into darkness as the hat was lowered onto his head. 

“Ohhhh, my my, what do we have here Mister Lupin?” said a shrewd voice in his ear. 

Remus didn’t say anything, his mind went blank.

“There’s bravery here, in the heart of this wolf, yes indeed.” His blood ran cold. He certainly didn’t feel brave. “Kindness too, so much of it— loyalty, not a bad mind, either— you’d do well in Ravenclaw— but no— I know where.”

“Gryffindor!” It bellowed and Remus felt faint with relief that he could go sit down and not be stared at anymore. He was so very sweaty.

He barely even remembered walking away from the stool, but he was suddenly being hugged and clapped on the back and shaken by all manner of students at the Gryffindor table as he sat down between Lily and Sirius in blank shock.

Sirius shook his hand with a firm grip and a dazzling smile, and Lily watched them both with narrow eyes. 

“Come on!” Sirius shot her an exasperated smile. “We’re housemates now!”

“It doesn’t mean I have to like you!” Lily whispered back as the hall fell silent again, waiting to hear where Angela Marchbanks would go. 

Sirius rolled his eyes at Remus like they were old friends, and he couldn’t help but smile weakly, nervously, back at him. His stomach felt bottomless and his foot jiggling beneath the bench. The next three people became Gryffindors and Remus clapped and stomped with the rest of them as they came to squeeze in by Lily. 

Quinton Mulciber became a Slytherin and he could see, even from across the hall, the blond Slytherin prefect narrowing her eyes at the boy. Patricia Nettle became a Hufflepuff and then Peter Pettigrew ambled over to the Gryffindor table to sit across from Sirius and Remus. His face was nearly as red as the lipstick smudges on his face. James Potter followed after that, taking a seat next to Peter, pushing his large glasses up his nose as he shook everyone’s hand and nodded enthusiastically at Sirius, who seemed beyond overjoyed at the whole affair. Lily tried hard to ignore him. 

The rest of the sorting went by in a bit of a blur, and he only noted when Severus was sorted into Slytherin and Lily gave a small, sad sigh as she watched her friend walk over to the far table. James and Sirius snickered heartily and she turned angry eyes on them.

Before she could say anything, the feast appeared. 

______________

_ September 5, 1971 _

The smell of dust and disuse filled his nostrils and Remus sneezed hard as he tried to adjust to the gloomy darkness of the place where he would be spending his evening, many evenings, actually. Seven years worth of full moons, to be exact. 

The dusty windows were boarded up against the setting sun, and there were few lights to illuminate the dilapidated mustard cupboards, the peeling burgundy wallpaper and splintering ash floorboards. The house creaked and swayed with the wind outside, groaning under its own weight and age, protesting its very existence. The doors were reinforced, bricked over on the inside, thick and heavy layers of protective magic cinching it all together. 

He stood slowly from his crouching position, having just emerged from the long, dark tunnel, and shook the debris from the folds of his shabbiest pair of trousers. 

He sniffed and wiped his runny nose, taking a shuddering breath. He missed his mum, his bedroom. He missed his usual transformation routine, the comfort of it. His dad would shrink and remove all of his furniture from the bedroom and transfigure his pillow into a little tent full of cushions. His mum would give him a stack of cookies and a copy of _ Martin Migg’s the Mad Muggle _ and lock him in his room to read until the moon rose. 

For long minutes, he would listen to the soothing sound of his dad’s voice casting protective spells at the bedroom door, cosseting and strong, the magic knitting thickly around him, spells his father had learned after Remus had left St. Mungo’s all those years ago. Spells that had been created by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. 

When the moon inevitably did rise over the horizon and cast its ethereal glow, the convulsions would rack his body with splintering, fractal pain as his bones shape shifted, his flesh tore, and his body would be in a flush of prickly hair, pulsing sharply through the pores of his skin. He never remembered much after the pain overtook him, bits and flashes, here and there, howling, screaming, clawing at the door, the immense and primal desire to run free under the moon nearly suffocating him, trapped as he was. 

Nearly twelve hours later, he would wake, naked on the floor, the tent and cushions ripped to shreds, his clothes and _ Martin Migg’s _ in tatters along with his own flesh. His mum would be there in an instant with healing salves and potions, with chocolate and words of comfort. He missed it desperately. Wished he was there now. Instead he was here, in this condemned hovel. Alone.

Remus’s thumb rubbed an old scar on the back of his hand as he wandered the halls of the musty, dark house, regretting his choice to come to school. He had no idea how he was meant to keep this secret for the next seven years without anyone catching on. No idea how he would answer the invasive questions. 

This was only his fourth night at school and already he had formed a fast bond with his dorm mates. Sirius was the loud and rebellious aristocrat, the one who had received a howler from his parents for being sorted into Gryffindor. James was the funny and energetic jokester, who was far too concerned if everyone was well fed or not. He reminded Remus of an incessantly clucking mother hen, particularly in the morning as they all got ready for the day. Peter was the quiet and observant boy who always had extra chocolate to share.

They ate together, studied together, spent their free time together. It was the first time since Remus had been very young that he had real friends, and he was terrified of losing them already. Four days in. Why did the moon have to come so early this September?

He checked his watch. It was 7:15 pm and he had another 28 minutes before the moon rose in the East. Madam Pomfrey had shown him the day before, the curmudgeonous tree that would guard his tunnel. Yet another secret he was tasked to keep. She walked with him to the neglected ruins of the house, crouching low and muddying her white uniform, and explained that she would be back for him when the moon set. 

And so it would be. Every month. Seven years of transformations. 

He wandered through the dusty halls, his thumb still stroking his scars, feeling scared and alone, and uncertain. He didn’t have_ Martin Migg’s _ this time. He didn’t have his pillow fort. He didn’t have his stack of cookies or his mum waiting on the other side of the door. His eyes stung and his throat felt tight as his feet carried him to a master bedroom, a large four poster bed with lank and threadbare velvet hangings in the centre. 

With hot tears slipping silently down his face, he carefully took off his watch. Slowly and deliberately, he stepped out of all of his clothes and folded them. Walking over to a large trunk he stashed his clothes and wand out of sight, setting his black chucks on top. He shivered against the cold draft in the room and turned to crawl onto the stiff musty blankets of the large, once luxurious, bed. He laid there, staring up at the web covered ceiling, the cotton fluffy tendrils waving slightly in the draft. The crown moulding was chipped and peeling, the ancient chandelier lopsided and forlorn. He lay there, hugging himself, and waited. Waited for the moon to rise. Waited for the transformation.

______________

As spring turned to fall and fall into winter, Remus fell into a relatively consistent routine. He had his routine with his classes and his studies, he had a routine with Madam Pomfrey for his transformations, he even had a routine for lying to his friends about where he continually disappeared to and why he was always getting hurt— his mum was sick, he told them. He had to visit her often, he said. 

But with each passing month, they looked at him a bit longer than after the last explanation, eyes wandering to the new scars and scratches on his face that he valiantly tried to hide beneath concealment charms and even a bit of makeup that Madam Pomfrey had given him.

He had a routine of writing to his mum and his dad, waiting endlessly for their short responses and evasive answers about home. Occasionally, his dad would send him a package with an ointment or potion and a hastily scrawled note. 

_ Don’t tell your mum. Let me know how it works. _

_ X _

He always threw them away. 

After James had revealed he had a family heirloom in the form of an invisibility cloak that the four of them barely fit beneath, he had a routine of sneaking out of bed at night. Jumbled between his new friends, they dodged Mrs Norris in the darkened halls and snuck to the kitchens to nick snacks late at night. Or, the one time they toilet papered the staff room after Flitwick had given Sirius detention for making Emma Vanity cry when he called her a snake in the grass. Or, that other time they left dung bombs in the dungeons by the entrance to the Slytherin dormitories after Severus had hexed Peter to grow a rat’s tail. 

Or, perhaps the time they tried to sneak into the girl’s dormitory to set off a Filibuster no-flame-wet-start firework in Lily’s room after she told James and Sirius they were spoiled and entitled bullies with no sense of true chivalry. Sirius and James had been furious for days, and Remus had tried desperately to talk them out of their scheming, though with no such luck. 

McGonagall had found them all in a heap at the bottom of the sliding stairs, James trying desperately to hide his invisibility cloak in his sweater, fireworks spinning and popping all around the common room. Two of the sofas were smouldering and charred, while one of the curtains burst into flames. At two fourteen in the morning, no less. 

“I'm disgusted!” She screeched, face red and eyes wide, standing in her tartan nightgown. "Four students out of bed in one night! I've never heard of such a thing before!”

They had been given a weeks worth of detention with Hagrid in the Forbidden Forest after that; rehoming bowtruckles, picking strands of unicorn hair that had been left on shrubs. Sirius had taken one of the long silvery strands and used it to tie his hair up and out of his face, making him look even more patrician. Like a runaway prince from a novel, with or without vampires, but certainly Victorian. 

“Only you would use unicorn hair as a hair tie.” Remus said with fondness in his voice, as Sirius winked and turned to brandish a stick of elm he’d found at James, cries of _ en guarde _ ringing out between the trees. 

They collected poisonous mushrooms for Slughorn’s NEWT classes, and Remus even caught sight of a few centaurs across a clearing in the dim light of a crescent moon. 

They had all thought it was a thrilling adventure and an excellent detention until one night, while they were picking plangentines by moonlight in the chilled air with frost underfoot, they heard the unnatural cry of a wolf in the distance. 

Remus froze, his limbs rigid, his teeth clenched. 

James and Sirius, not noticing Remus’s panicked visage, crooned as one would in response to a chilling ghost story. “Oooooo!” James had intoned in a spooky voice, turning to jostle Sirius. “Wonder if there are werewolves in here?! Wouldn’t that be cool? A real-live werewolf!”

Sirius had playfully lunged at James, tackling him to the ground and pretending to gnaw on his arm as they rolled and flailed in the underbrush. 

“It’s all fun and games until someone becomes a monster!” He yelled and James yelped and shrieked in amusement, batting Sirius away who continued to pretend to be a deranged and rabid werewolf on the hunt for human flesh. 

Peter hadn’t said anything but quietly and gently touched Remus’s elbow with a squeeze. Grounding him. He turned his slightly panicked gaze towards him, worried that Peter had somehow read his thoughts, knew his secret. But, how could he have? Peter wasn’t some master legilimens, as far as he was aware. 

“We’re safe with Hagrid,” Peter said simply. “None of the rogue werewolves would come close to the school with him and Dumbledore around.”

Remus nodded his head stiffly, palms sweaty, and bent down to pick up his basket and its errant contents. His plangentines had spilt without his noticing. 

James and Sirius had immediately started plotting ways to sneak back to the forest soon after, much to Hagrid’s chagrin. When he overheard their excited chatter about finding werewolves and dragons and all manner of dangerous and fascinating creatures on their last night of midnight wanderings, Hagrid had put his foot down. 

“Yer not to go in the forest alone! The lot of you! If I catch ya’ sneakin’ around here, I’ll have to tell McGonagall, I will!” 

But Remus saw the glint of a challenge in his friends' eyes and knew nothing would deter them, despite their promises to be well behaved. 

______________

Through the course of most days, they wrote each other any number of notes and letters, learning fast how to charm little slips of parchment to seek one another out within the sprawling expanse of the castle. It was a crafty bit of magic Sirius had learned from one of the books in the restricted section of the library. His notes always appeared folded as little stars, James as elegant cranes. Remus simply folded his into a paper airplane, and Peter, less skilled at the elegant little charms, crumpled his into a ball.

Between the four of them, the notes were often passed quite without discernment. 

_ James, _

_ I put Ebbesneezer’s Itchy Sneezy Watery Eye Allergy Apocalypse Powder in the salt shaker. _

_ Don’t use the salt. _

_ \- SOB _

_ Ps. Don’t tell Peter _

_ Sirius, _

_ I overheard that red-headed Hufflepuff chatting to Dorcas. Apparently Bertha likes you. _

_ \- R _

_ Peter, _

_ Pass me more frog spawn. _

_ \- James _

_ Sirius, _

_ McGee is looking, put the frog spawn down. _

_ \- R _

_ Remus, _

_ Your robes are tucked into your pants :( _

_ Made you look :) _

_ \- SOB _

_ James, _

_ Lily is looking for you. She’s on the warpath about the dung bombs in the dungeon, again. There are probably better ways to get her attention than tormenting her best friend. _

_ Good luck. _

_ \- R _

_ Remus, _

_ Its dinner. Lamb stew. Your favourite. Get down here. I saved you a seat. You can study later. _

_ \- SOB _

_ Ps. Don’t use the salt. _

_ Peter, _

_ Don’t use the salt. _

_ \- R _

_ Remus, _

_ Too late but thanks anyways. You’re missing out on the chocolate cake. _

_ \- Peter _

_ Sirius, _

_ Come with me to the kitchens? _

_ \- R _

_ Remus, _

_ Snivellus is annoying he deserves dung bombs. You missed lunch again, I brought you toast. _

_ \- James _

_ James, _

_ Bet you can’t get a filibuster into Snivellus’s cauldron from here. No wands. First one in gets to use the cloak tonight? _

_ \- SOB _

_ Sirius, _

_ Where did everyone go? _

_ \- Peter _

_ Peter, _

_ Come to the astronomy tower, we found a secret passage. Bring Remus, the swot is studying again, make sure he eats his chocolate. _

_ \- SOB _

_ James, _

_ We can’t go out to the forest tonight, we have detention this week already. Remember? You owe me, still. I don’t know why I listen to any of you. _

_ \- R _

_ Sirius, _

_ Davey Gudgeon says we wouldn’t be able to touch the trunk of the whomping willow. He says no one can. Bets? _

_ \- James _

_ James, _

_ DO NOT TOUCH THE TREE. _

_ \- R _

During lessons, Remus had a routine of passing these same notes back and forth under the noses of his professors. Sirius took little care to conceal his misdeeds and often got the rest of them into trouble for his little star-shaped bits of parchment. 

Remus sat between Sirius and Peter at their regular potion’s bench, watching as Sirius rolled a pointy star across his workspace, just missing a pickled _ Aurelia aurita _ that had slipped from the ladle as Remus had scooped them from jar to cauldron. The star stopped just in front of Peter. Slughorn droned on about a potion that one of his students had perfected for hangovers while they toiled over their steaming vats of calming draft.

_ Hey Peter, _

_ Check Severus’s nose. I think I can see the oil dripping off it from here. _

_ You added too many beetle eyes. Use a dash of lemon juice to change the colour back to orange. _

_ \- SOB _

As Remus looked back from reading the note over Peter’s shoulder, another star from Sirius appeared in front of him. 

_ Remus, _

_ Reach over and fix Peter’s robes, will you? He’s an embarrassment to the whole house. How’d he manage to get his collar up by his ear? _

_ \- SOB _

______________

Professor Doge was a sweet man, a little waffly, a bit of a pushover, but kind as anything. Remus enjoyed him immensely and often excelled in lessons because of how hands on it was. 

Doge seemed equally fond of Remus and, like so many of their professors, perpetually exasperated with Sirius. 

“But, Elphias, mate— that doesn’t make any sense.” Sirius was saying, as if he really was just chatting with a buddy in the common room, and not his Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor during a lesson. Remus shook his head in amazement. 

“What, my dear Mister Black, doesn’t make sense?” Professor Doge sighed with a defeated air. 

“Why would the ministry spend so much time on passing these bills? It’s not like keeping werewolves out of work is going to do anything to protect anyone? Why can’t they have a job like anyone else?”

“This lesson isn’t to discuss the ethics of magical legislation, dear boy, its to learn how to cast the banishing spell that works best on transformed werewolves, rogue thestrals, stampeding hippogriffs, or a swarm of cornish pixies.”

“But, werewolves are still people when they aren’t transformed, aren’t they?” Sirius pushed, his face twisted in confusion. “Thestrals and hippogriffs don’t have to work and pay bills.”

Remus felt overly hot in his jumper and school uniform and his hands began to sweat. 

“Yeah, but who would want to work with a werewolf? They’re dangerous, aren’t they? Could bite you at any time, couldn’t they?” Piped up Dirk Cresswell. There was a murmur of agreement that rippled out through the class. 

“Would the banishment spell work on un-transformed werewolves?” Asked Xavier. 

Doge’s voice was patient. “No, Mister Smith. As Mister Black put it, werewolves are human, same as you and me when they aren’t transformed. Banishment meant for dark creatures wouldn’t work on them.”

Remus shifted uncomfortably in his seat, staring down at his copy of _ The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, _ flipped open to banishing charms, where there was quite a graphic illustration of a wizard blasting a blindingly bright spell at a beast with rippling muscles and sharp teeth. Its claws sunk into the flesh of fallen damsel. 

“No wonder the ministry said they couldn’t work with normal people, you’d never know one was just lurking around, biding its time. Good thing they’re not allowed at Hogwarts.” Xavier said. 

“That’s just prejudice,” Peter piped up. It was unusual for him to speak during class and his face turned a deep shade of pink beneath his blond hair. 

Doge looked over at Peter with a small smile. “You’re right, Mister Pettigrew, it is prejudice. Five points to Gryffindor.”

Later on in the lesson, they were practicing their banishment spells and Remus had mastered it faster even than even Sirius or James could. Peter was flailing a little besides him, Doge unable to explain it in a way that made any more sense. Sirius had inserted himself into the proceedings and was speaking loudly over Professor Doge. 

“Like this, Pete, swish it and jab— see? No, you’re not jabbing it right. The incantation— no, that’s not— wait, hold still—”

Remus surreptitiously tore a bit of parchment off and wrote; 

_ Peter, _

_ Less wrist movement, more enunciation, you’re doing fine. Tell Sirius to shut it. _

_ \- R _

Peter had sighed gratefully reading the little paper aeroplane that had soared between Sirius and Doge, caught up in their own argument, and had just so told Sirius to shut it, who squawked in indignation. He tried the spell again and got it in one. 

“Well done, Mister Pettigrew! I knew you had it in you!” Professor Doge exclaimed. 

Sirius muttered mutinously, returning to practice his spell at his own seat. It wasn’t long before a star landed in front of Remus. 

_ You shut it. _

_ \- SOB _

And Remus couldn’t help but laugh. 

______________

As fall turned to winter, the snow battered castle grounds and, indeed, the castle itself, began to take on a different kind of magic. Tinsel and holly was strung up in garlands and wreaths down every hall. Candles glowed from within the suits of armour and even Peeves seemed to full of cheer as he pelted students with snowballs through open windows. 

Remus looked forward to seeing his parents over the holidays, only one more moon to go. He had started counting down the days before he could run to the red mailbox and into his mother’s waiting arms, could smell her hairspray and the hint of Marlboro. Could sit with her late in the afternoon as she knit. Though, it wasn’t long before he noticed his excitement wasn’t shared by two of their number. 

“I’d rather stay here,” Sirius said shortly at the mention of leaving, his arms across his chest and a scowl marring his handsome. 

“Can’t you?” Peter asked. “I am.”

“Why wouldn’t you go home?” James asked. 

“Walburga won’t let me stay,” Sirius grumbled, his scowl deepening. “I have a duty to the family or some such bullocks to show up and do the Yule festival with them— we go to France every year to a family chateau… it’s…” He trailed off with a furrowed brow and pursed lips, his arms tight across his chest. 

“Mum’s got a new boyfriend.” Peter sighed heavily, leaning over a chessboard, calculating his next move. “They’re spending Christmas in the Seychelles together. He writes for _ The Prophet _, apparently.”

“You’re not going with?” James asked, looking scandalised. 

“I’d rather not.” Peter said with wide eyes and a furrowed brow as he moved a pawn forward. 

“What are you doing for the holidays, Remus?” Sirius asked. 

Remus shrugged, moving a knight to capture one of Peter’s bishops. “Dunno. Not sure if mum’s up for a proper Christmas this year. Not that we ever really do much. Gran usually visits.” 

They all nodded solemnly, but he didn’t miss the shifty sideways glance Peter, Sirius, and James shared. He had used his mum’s non-existent ill-health as a cover story every month since school had started, and no one had pressed much, though Sirius did have a significantly raised eyebrow and a hard stare when Remus came back to the dorm after the last full moon with a blooming bruise near his collarbone and two new scars on his neck that hadn’t quite healed as well as Madam Pomfrey had hoped. 

He didn’t look up to meet Sirius’s gaze, but he could feel his eyes on him. 

“And you, James?” Remus finally asked, staring hard at the chessboard. 

James launched into a twenty minute lecture on his family’s yuletide traditions. The stockings, the solstice celebration, the tree, the topper he made with his dad every year, the cookies, the delicacies his mom’s family sent them from India. 

“So,” James explained, vibrating with great excitement, “our holiday celebration is a bit of everything! It’s like a combination of Muggle Christmas, Pureblood Traditional Yule, and Dhanu Sankranti. But, since all of those dates are different, we compromise and celebrate on the solstice.”

His hair flopped over his thick square glasses and he ran his fingers through it, making it stand up on end. 

“Here I’ll show you some pictures—” he jumped up to rummage around his trunk, extricating a family photo album that was meticulously put together with love and attention. Each photo labelled with careful handwriting, each description dotted with hearts and smiley faces. Remus could feel the happiness emanating from the pages as James flipped through the thick card stock and photo lined sheets and passed it around to show his friends. 

“We put Christmas cookies out— like the ones muggles put out for Santa, you know? Dad loves muggles— thinks Santa is a riot. And then we make so much food— but dad fasts the whole day. Then, when the sun goes down, we eat ‘til we can’t move and _ then _ we give each other presents.”

James beamed around at them, his dark skin glowing against his maroon jumper. Sirius had taken the photo album and was carefully paging through it with a closed off expression. 

“You should all come around over the holidays! Peter, why don’t you spend the break with me, you shouldn’t be alone! It’ll be so boring!”

Sirius grumbled. “Don’t think Walburga will let me, to be honest. Plus, Regulus...” He trailed off again.

“Me neither.” Said Remus evasively, knowing the full moon landed on New Year’s day this year and the chance to see his friends would be occluded by it. 

“Mum won’t get the letter, she’s already off on her holiday,” Peter said, looking bummed at the missed opportunity. 

James deflated, even his hair seemed to lay flatter. 

“Sorry, mate.” Sirius said, with an effort at apologetic. “Looks like you have to spend a happy Christmas with your family on your own.” 

______________

Morning light filtered gently through the steamy panes of glass that encased greenhouse one, obscured slightly by the far reaching tendrils of exotic and magical vines, cosseted in the tropical milieu afforded by numerous atmospheric charms. Greenhouse one, the only one Remus had ever entered, always smelled of fresh rain and moss, of compost and freshly cut grass, though he assumed the smell was much the same, all the way up to greenhouse seven. 

The dirt floors were soft underfoot and it dampened the sound of stool legs scraping across the floor as the class wandered in, shutting the door behind them against the bitter wind outside, stripping off cloaks and hats and scarves as they began to collect in groups around potting benches, still chatting and animated from the trek across the snow covered grounds. 

Sirius had been telling Peter about dragons on the walk to the greenhouses, a conversation that had originated all the way up in Gryffindor tower, which valiantly continued as the boys struggled through the snow and into the warmth of the greenhouse. Sirius’s flamboyant discourse had attracted several others, and a little knot of people now followed with great interest. Remus listened to Sirius’s confident voice and smiled around the sound as he made his way through the new warmth of the room, his voice was oddly calming in a way that little else was. 

He didn’t immediately go to their usual bench, but rather bypassed the loud clusters of his classmates and wandered deeper into the glass encased terrarium. Touching giant beans and drooping clusters of purple flowers, he breathed in deeply the smell of petrichor and decomposition. He cricked his neck and his fingers rubbed a frayed corner of the sleeve of his knitted sweater, deep burgundy and faded white today, under his school uniform. 

He walked over to a large antique porcelain bathtub with austere clawed feet and chipped bronze enamel. It was set beneath a closed window, frosted over from the cold outside, shrouded in giant vibrant morning glories and two large strelitzias on either end. The tub was filled with dragon dung and covered over with leaf mulch, which hid from view, the writhing mass of giant earthworms that converted the dung into a dense compost.

From the drain at the bottom dripped a dark amber liquid into a tin watering can. His knobbly knees creaked and the faded fabric of his slacks protested as he reached down and lifted the nearly overflowing container. He carried it further back into the greenhouse, through the furling ferns and overhanging baskets of tumbling vines, to a shelf of regal trees in shallow pots with thick trunks and gnarled roots, right at the back. He was obscured from view of the rest of the class, hidden in the foliage, surrounded by quiet life. 

He fed each of the trees in turn from the worm tea, just like Professor Sprout had shown him when he came to hide in the greenhouses after the last full moon— when Madam Pomfrey had come to him the morning after with a sad expression and said that he was needed at home— when he had discovered that his mum really was ill. 

When he had returned from spending a week at home, he tried to wrap his mind around the word “terminal”. A muggle condition, they had told him. A condition that St. Mungo’s wouldn’t treat. The understanding that although his mum was married to a wizard and had mothered a magical child, neither of these realities granted her any rights in the wizarding community. She was left to fight her illness with what technology and medicine the non magical world could provide for what they called stage four breast cancer. 

His dad had spent the week locked in his office and sullen during meal times, not speaking much. 

He had ignored his friend’s letters and inquiries the whole week. Unsure what to say. He wanted to tell them his mum was dying, that he was scared and hurting. But he had already told them months ago that she was ill, it wouldn’t be news to them. 

He had felt sickening guilt well inside him, eating him alive. A pang of remorse that told him this was his fault. That he had brought this on them. That by lying to his friends he had made him mum sick. He had pushed away the chocolate his mum had brought him, and found excuses to be out of the house during meal times, found reprieve in the familiar library in town. He even made a deal with the librarian, who always had a soft spot for him, to take a briefcase full of books back to school with him. He promised he would bring them back over the summer holiday and she had smiled softly at him. His baggy sweaters hung even more loosely on his thin frame and he began finding more and more solace in his rituals. 

He continued drawing, whenever he felt scared or hungry, lonely or worried, or whenerve the escapism of his books weren't enough. Methodical lines, over and over again until they formed protuberant, often bulbous abstract shapes. He filled page after page, over and over again, like a meditation, like a prayer. Until, that is, the day his dad apparated him back to school. When he found himself surrounded by other people again, he hid his sketchbook deep in his bag, embarrassed by the things he drew. Instead, he began picking at the scars under his chin until they cracked and bled without him noticing. 

He had heard Sirius shouting down the hall when he had returned, “Where in Godric’s name is he?!” When his three friends had found him alone in the dorm, ready to interrogate him, shout at his audacity to ignore their many letters and inquiries, they had stopped short at the alarming sight in front of them.

They saw the scabs and blood and dirty fingernails, the caught-out expression on Remus’s face, and the pale hallowed look of his cheeks. James conjured a cloth and handed it to him with a weak smile. Peter pulled some chocolate out of his pocket and placed it on the bed beside him. Sirius sat next to him, uncharacteristically quiet, his hands folded in his lap. “Your mum?” He asked. 

Remus nodded, but didn’t look at any of them. He told them about St. Mungo’s, about how they wouldn’t help her. Told them his muggle mother was dying and Sirius had a pinched and angry expression. James swung an arm around his shoulders when his eyes filled with tears he began talking about quidditch, just so Remus could have something else to listen to. 

He could hear Sirius and James now, their voices echoing around the greenhouse. Getting louder and more vociferous about why slaying dragons was a stupid pureblood tradition. Xavier, the short Hufflepuff with red hair, vehemently disagreeing, but failing to make his point in the face of Sirius’s dramatics. 

Remus snorted to himself as he touched each tree in turn, loving the texture of the varying types of bark and foliage. A praying mantis danced back and forth, surveying Remus carefully from its perch atop stunted and ancient Scotts pine in a shallow grey pot dotted with granite rocks. “Hullo.” He said quietly, pouring a healthy measure of dark liquid at the base of the tree. 

“Good morning, everyone!” Boomed Professor Sprout’s jovial voice from the other side of the expansive space. “Mister Black, off the bench— come, all of you, and collect earmuffs from the front for today’s lesson— come, Mister Black, let’s go!”

Remus said goodbye to the large brown mantis and rushed to replace the watering can beneath the porcelain tub. 

He waited until the crowd at the front of the class thinned a bit before reaching for a pair of earmuffs. He put them over his ears and immediately recoiled and tossed them aside, affronted. He reached for a different pair. Again, he quickly discarded them. 

“Lupin just pick some earmuffs— it’s not a fashion show.” James teased reaching across him and grabbing a pair of fluffy blue ones with a complete lack of consideration for what he was choosing. 

“Mister Black! Merlin’s beard—“ Professor Sprout groaned as Sirius regained his position atop a stool to better lecture the little group he had collected around him, yelling something or other on the proper handling of and identification of dragons— “You can’t just stun them, Marlene, you need at least a dozen wizards— it’s very dangerous stuff, you see—“ 

“I’m not— It’s not—“ Remus grumbled, his hands restlessly searching, irritated and unable to explain himself. He tried on and tossed aside yet another pair of earmuffs. “They don’t fit.”

“Of course they fit, they’re magical and one size fits all. They fit everyone.” Professor Sprout said exasperatedly, turning away from Sirius, who had yet to come down from his pulpit, and watching Remus shift through every pair of available earmuffs left on the table. The entire class had already gotten theirs and were yelling over one another, marvelling at how little they could hear. 

Sirius was holding court, standing on his stool and continuing to yell about dragons. “Yes, well, the Hebridian Blacks love, absolutely love, a fresh whale carcass— easiest way to draw them in, I say. Saw it myself summer before last on holiday in St. Kilda. You wouldn’t believe the smell, Marlene. You just wouldn’t.” He was recounting, all blasé confidence and belied intensity as Remus’s heart sped up and his hands searched with increasing desperation. His left hand came up to his chin and his thumb found an old scar to stroke as his right continued to reach for earmuffs.

None of them felt right, however, and Remus was becoming more and more distressed with each pair he threw aside. The yellow ones were too tight. The green ones sat on his ears too high. The blue ones with the patch sagged too much, and now his ears themselves were getting irritated by how frequently he was testing earmuffs. The purple ones were far too scratchy.

Sirius was valiantly distracting all attention away from Remus, while Peter and James, seeming to understand that this was more than Remus’s vanity, tried to help evaluate the qualities with which he was judging the earmuffs, scrabbling energetically through the box.

James was tossing different pairs at Peter, who was preliminarily testing them for relative scratchiness and tightness, before handing them to Remus.

“Mister Lupin, for the love of all that is decent, we cannot start the lesson until you’re wearing ear protection— Mister Black! _ Get down _!”

Finally, Peter handed him a pair of subtly pink earmuffs with a thick band and soft fluff. He pulled them on and let out a sigh of relief. His whole body relaxed in the muffled silence and the gentle pressure on his head was a welcomed sensation. He opened his eyes and nodded at Professor Sprout, who watched him for a moment before nodding back and tried to call the class to attention. 

“Mister Black, this is the last time I will ask you to stop scaling the potting benches! That’s five points from Gryffindor!”

“But, Pomona! I was just— the _ dragons _ ! And the _ smell— _”

“That’s enough! Everyone get your workbooks and let’s get this lesson on the move!”

Sirius muttered mutinously as he hopped off of the bench, his canary yellow earmuffs around his neck, stalking off to sit between Remus and James. 

Professor Sprout watched them with a stern and tired gaze until they were all seated and silent. 

“Alrighty then, today, class, we’re going to look at mandrake sprouts. The call of a juvenile or adult mandrake could kill you with a single cry, but these sprouts only broke the surface yesterday, so their squeaks would do little more than give you a migraine. Keep your earmuffs on, dump each sprout onto your work surface, and please draw a labeled picture into your workbooks. Get to it!”

Sirius was up and running to the front of the class before Remus had a chance to take in the instructions. By the time Remus was standing up from his stool, Sirius had rushed back with an armful of four pots, each with a tiny leafy sprout poking out the top. 

He handed one to each of them and sat back down. 

The world wasn’t exactly silent with the earmuffs on, but all of the sharpness of it was dulled significantly. Remus breathed out a heavy sigh and he felt some more tension bleeding from his shoulders as he stared down at his potted plant. Its leaves twitched in what he could only assume was agitation. His thumb stroked the scar under his chin and he set out his workbook carefully before gently tipping the tiny plant out of its pot. 

Peter had already dumped his pot out onto the bench before him, and the little root, no bigger than a fat thumb, was squalling with a twisted face, making a sound similar to a shrill whistle. 

“ODD THING, THIS, ISN’T IT—” Peter was yelling, far too loudly, making Remus wince even with the protection of his earmuffs. He turned large incredulous eyes at Peter. 

James reached over and shoved him. “Merlin, Peter, you don’t have to scream it.”

“WHAT?” Peter yelled again, even more loudly, clearly unaware of the volume he was speaking. Remus suppressed a grin at the exasperated look on James’s and Sirius’s faces. 

Sirius reached bodily across Remus, his little frame pressing into him and he pulled a flap of Peter’s green earmuff. “Shut it, mate, or the whole castle’ll hear you.”

“OH—” Peter shouted, startling himself. “Oh— I mean— _ oh. _” He ended in a meek whisper. Half the class was giggling and even Professor Sprout looked amused. 

The rest of the lesson carried on mostly uneventfully. Sirius finished his detailed sketch before any of them, as usual, and he spent the rest of the time impatiently leaning between James and Remus, to comment on their work. Remus was used to this and ignored him for the most part, engrossed in his assignment as he was, focusing on making his handwriting neat and tidy, on making his drawing as precise as possible. 

Peter struggled to finish his disproportionate drawing before Professor Sprout announced it was time to repot the sprouts in larger containers. Sirius eventually shoved himself between Remus and Peter to help Peter label his drawing in time, nearly crawling onto the workbench in his enthusiasm. Sirius’s knee knocked into Remus’s workspace, almost crushing the poor exposed little mandrake root. 

At the end of the class, Professor Sprout instructed them all to toss their earmuffs into the bin on their way out. Remus had forgotten he was wearing them, even, soft as they were. The muffled silence had been so nice, so pleasant. He hadn’t been distracted all lesson, and he managed to get all of his work done without much effort. 

Taking the fuzzy contraption off of his head for the first time since donning them, the rush of noise that assaulted Remus’s ears had him shutting his eyes for a moment against the intensity of it. 

Everything sounded so sharp. The shuffle of feet on the earthen ground, the shrill giggles of the girls moving past him, the tinkling sounds of wind chimes outside the greenhouse door, the creaking and scraping of the stools by the workbenches as his classmates cleared their places, even Sirius’s booming laugh and James’s silly antics, Peter’s mouth breathing and thick sniffling, it all rushed at him and his heart sped up. 

He put the earmuffs back on without thought, clutching them over his ears, as James and Sirius were swinging their bags on their backs and heading over to the door. He didn’t want to take them off. He felt a sense of welling dread at the thought of not being able to find them again should he need them. 

Surely, they would need them again? Next time? Or maybe, even, in his other lessons? Transfiguration, for instance, was often peppered with loud and shrill bangs from misfired spells. Surely, _ surely, _ they should have earmuffs for that? Charms? Potions? He could just wear them all the time. That’s not so weird, right?

Peter touched his shoulder gently, the pressure and feeling of the fabric moving across his skin and the damp heat from Peter’s small palm made him wince, again. 

“You coming, mate?” He heard the muffled wheezy voice beyond the earmuffs and he nodded absently, not really meaning it. His eyes watched the others as they carelessly tossed their furry earmuffs into the box by the door and handed their workbooks to Professor Sprout, laughing to themselves. 

He stood and followed Peter to the door. They were at the tail end of students milling out of the room as they pulled their cloaks tight against the howling wind and snow. Peter walked with his earmuffs in his hands, ready to toss into the box. He could hear Sirius loudly wondering where he and Peter were. Remus gripped his hands over his ears and prepared himself to toss them like everyone else, nice and simple, like taking off a plaster. 

When he reached the box, Professor Sprout extended her hand towards him. 

He regarded her, hands still on the fuzzy material, his fingers twirling the fabric methodically. 

“How about I set these aside for you, for the next time you need them.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. She smiled kindly. After a beat, in a quick motion, he took the pink earmuffs off and handed them to her. 

With the swirling sounds and sharp edges of the world back in his ears at full force, he watched her spell his name onto the band and set them beside the box. “For next time,” He repeated, looking for reassurance. 

“For next time,” She said, again, grinning. 

He handed her his notebook and she flipped it to the page of the day’s assignment and her brow furrowed. “I thought we talked about leaving the doodling off of the class assignments.” She said with a kind but stern gaze. 

Remus sagged. “I didn’t notice. I wasn’t paying attention.” He said honestly, not remembering drawing so many extraneous lines and shapes on the margins of the mandrake root assignment. She nodded with a resigned air and waved him off without further comment.

He stepped out of the shady and cosseted greenhouse and into the cold grey grounds. Remus’s stomach grumbled faintly and he felt tired as he pulled thick mittens onto his scarred hands. Sirius proclaimed loudly at their reappearance and he swung an arm around Remus and Peter when they approached, guiding them back to the castle through the tracks in the snow, James walking backwards in front of them, talking about how his mother’s cooking was better than the houselves’. 

“Don’t let them hear you say that! They might send up mouldy food!” Sirius reprimanded sternly and Remus laughed at the thought. 

______________

From the deep folds of his duvet late that night, Remus heard the telltale rustle of paper fluttering down beside him. He opened his eyes to see a little folded star perched precariously on the cover of _Fire from Heaven _he had just closed for the night. He smiled to himself, the magic radiating off of it felt like the warmth of the earth. Sirius. 

He opened it carefully to see the elegant script. 

_ Fancy a walk? _

He tossed his blankets aside, never having been able to tell Sirius no. The cold air swirled around him as he quietly pulled back his hangings to see Sirius already standing there with his jaunty grin and James’s cloak. He could hear the deep, even breathing of James’s sleeping form and the soft snores emanating from the pile of blankets where Peter lay as he quickly threw on his clothes. 

“Where are we going?” He whispered, wondering if he would need his gloves. 

“The lake,” Sirius whispered back, heading for the door as Remus pulled on an extra jumper. 

They walked silently, through the common room, tossing the cloak on before pushing the portrait open. “Who goes there?!” The Fat Lady cried, grumbling and tired. “I swear to Merlin, if it’s you again, Mister Black, I will call for the Headmaster!” She mumbled mutinously, knowing only that they snuck out often, and having no idea how they were doing it. They stifled a snort of laughter and continued on their way. 

It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to go off on their own, but it also wasn’t a regular occurrence. Sirius tended to sneak off with James, only to alert Peter and Remus when they’d found something interesting or when they were needed in a bout of sophisticated rule breaking. 

Sometimes Remus would ask Sirius to sneak down to the kitchens with him for food when he was too overwhelmed to eat with everyone else in the Great Hall. 

Their path to the entrance hall was clear except for a brief moment when Slughorn wandered by on his way to the kitchens, humming as he went. They halted, pressed together in an alcove, and waited, trying hard not to giggle at the off tune song the ridiculous man was humming and mumbling through. 

Remus had to cover Sirius’s mouth with his hand to stop him from laughing out loud after he Remus had accidentally stood on the edge of the cloak, nearly pulling it off them both. Once Slughorn was out of sight, Sirius licked Remus’s hand, who pulled it away in disgust, wiping it on his trousers and muttering, “Ugh! Sirius! Gross! For the love of _ Godric. _” while Sirius sniggered and started off down the hall. 

Gaining the cold air of the dark night beyond the great oak doors, Remus breathed deeply for the first time since they had left the towers. The frigid air stung the inside of his nose and a fresh scar, still scabby and cracked, one that curved around up his left nostril, tightened uncomfortably. 

They marched through a light dusting of frosty snow on the ground, past Hagrid’s and down to the edge of the lake. Sirius pulled the cloak off of them and stuffed it into his robes before crouching down and picking up a stone, tossing it artfully at the dark waters. It skipped three times before a large lazy tentacle broke the surface and grabbed the stone, retreating into the rippling water slowly, like a reprimand. 

Remus smiled. The action pulled at the scab by his nose, reaching across his cheek to under his eye. In the cold night air, it tightened further and cracked. He winced, making it worse. His fingers came up to touch the place where it began to bleed and he swore under his breath. Sirius turned to regard him with a careful expression. 

He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Remus who thanked him awkwardly. He dabbed the blood away, his embarrassed sigh curling in mist before his face. 

“You ever going to tell me where you’re really getting those scars from? You have new ones every time you come back from seeing your mum.” Sirius’s voice was quiet but steady. Knowing. 

Remus looked up to catch his gaze, feeling far too exposed. But, he too, had seen the scratches and old scars that peppered Sirius’s skin; when they changed in the morning and evenings, when they passed each other in the communal showers, when he let his guard down. Poorly healed wounds that Sirius worked hard to cover. Sad stories told on his skin.

“Are you?” Remus retorted, not unkindly. 

Sirius stared at him for a long moment. Eyes soft, but uncertain. Thinking. Eventually he stooped down to pick up another rock, breaking the intensity of the moment. 

“Touché.” He said, and tossed it into the still water. 

______________

Sitting in McGonagall’s class was always a baptism by fire. She was an excellent teacher but with sky high expectations that sometimes left Remus feeling a bit doff. You either got it, or you didn’t, and he often didn’t. 

He had an old worn copy of _ A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration _ by Emeric Switch, patched and worn like most everything else he owned, open in front of him. An illustration on how to turn a glass jar into a snuff box with a little flow chart of movements that his mind was struggling to grasp. His fingers were threaded through his hair as he stared down at the page and he wondered aloud, “But why would we ever use a snuff box?”

Sirius barked a sharp laugh from behind him, surrounded by ever more elaborately decorated snuff boxes. James beside him with an equally impressive stack. They were competing to see who could make more and more, outdoing everyone else in the class, as they often did. 

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” McGonagall said, sounding impressed as she walked past their table. 

“Why, it’s only a pleasure, Minnie!” Boomed Sirius, glee in his voice. 

“Five points from Gryffindor.” She responded in a flat and exasperated tone.

“Awww!” Sirius griped loudly and James cackled beside him. Remus’s thumb found the scar under his chin and his foot began to shake beneath him. He started to mouth the words on the page before him silently, trying to force them to sink into his mind and make sense against the noise and distraction of the room around him. 

After much agonising and concentrating, he managed to walk a single, plainly decorated snuff box up to McGonagall’s desk, accomplishing full marks for his effort. Upon returning to his seat, he saw a wildly uneven star waiting for him. 

_ Remus, _

_ Marlene told Marietta who told Alice who told me that Dorcas has a crush on you. _

_ \- SOB _

Remus whipped back with wide eyes towards Sirius, unaccountable discomfort rolling through him, and his gaze flicking over to the Ravenclaw girl with the pretty beaded braids and soft hazel eyes. Sirius was sniggering heartily at the flush creeping up Remus’s neck and he sat down quickly. 

Flipping the paper over he wrote; 

_ You’re a plonker. _

Before wading it up and throwing it at Sirius’s head. 

______________

“Lupin, come to bed.”

Remus turned to see a sleepy and rumpled Sirius on the steps to the dormitory. He was wearing his emerald green pyjamas with a silken black robe and monogrammed slippers, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with a small fist. His hair fell down around his shoulders in thick curls, and Remus was distracted, wondering how Sirius managed to have such nice hair even after having slept on it. “We hava class in a few hours. You need to sleep.”

“I’m not ready. I still haven’t gotten this stupid spell figured out for Flitwick.” Remus said angrily, turning back to his stack of notes and books on the table before him. He was alone in the common room, save for the recent appearance of Sirius. 

His foot was jiggling madly under his chair and his fingers were threading harshly through his disheveled hair. He wore his most beloved faded yellow pyjama pants, threadbare and worn, patched with exasperated affection by his mum and then the school houselves. His brown jumper was several sizes too large over an old grey t-shirt and his cold feet were clad in faded cable knit socks. 

Sirius sighed heavily and walked over to where Remus was panicking about tomorrow's assignment. 

“I’m going to fail, and then I’ll be expelled, and then I won’t get to be a wizard— and my mum—” He cut himself off from speaking further, not wanting to be overwhelmed with the sadness that speaking of his mother brought him. 

“Remus, it’s only extra charms homework, you studied with us for hours, you’re going to be fine.”

“But, you don’t study, Sirius!” Remus snapped. “You and James know everything and you don’t actually study and then I can’t focus, and now I’m going to get detention!”

“Circe’s, mate.” Sirius rubbed his hands over his face tiredly. “Okay, alright.” He said, more to himself than anything as he straightened his robe, tying the sash assertively around his waist. He rubbed his face again, harder, waking himself up before snapping his fingers with an imperious flick of the wrist. 

A _ pop _ sounded between them and a small, wrinkly house elf, dressed in an overly large white pillow case appeared so suddenly that Remus let out a startled shriek. 

“Yes, Master Black, sir, what can Wally be getting the young Master?”

“Wally, could you be a dear and bring me a coffee?”

“With two sugars and cream, as Master Black usually takes it?”

“No, thank you, just black, please.”

The house elf nodded and Remus stared in abject shock and confusion. 

“Oh, and a croissant for my friend, here as well. Perhaps some chamomile tea.” Sirius glanced over at Remus with a raised eyebrow. 

“Yes, Sirs, Wally will be bringing sustenance for Mister Lupin and Master Black.” Before disappearing with another _ pop. _

“What are you doing? Charms?” Sirius sat in the plush armchair across the small table, one leg crossed over the other. 

“Sirius— what— how?” Remus stuttered confusedly. 

“How else must I get coffee at this hour, Remus? We don’t have time to go to the kitchens right now, do we?”

The house elf reappeared, moving some of Remus’s books, both school and fictional, aside, and placed a tray down. 

“Thank you, Wally.” Said Sirius purposefully, glancing at Remus, as if he’d never done something so pedestrian before, reaching over for his cup of coffee and the sheet of notes before Remus. 

“You are very welcome Master Black, Mister Lupin.” The house elf nodded and disappeared again. 

Remus shook his head, wondering if he were hallucinating.

“Charms?” Sirius asked again, eyes flicking once over the notes before handing them back.

“Yeah. Yes.” 

“Why does Filius teach us the dancing pineapple?” Sirius sipped at the steaming cup. Remus could smell the notes of hazelnut. 

“What? I don’t know?” He rubbed his eyes hard, seeing spots erupt in his vision. Sirius sighed and pulled the croissant before him, buttering it liberally before sliding the plate back across to Remus.

“It’s because it shows that we’ve mastered the four basic principles of charms. That’s all you really need to know— all the rest is extra, remember?”

“No— but—” Remus argued, feeling overwhelmed and irritated with Sirius’s ease at learning everything. It’s not that Remus was a bad student or that he didn’t understand the material. It's that it took him longer to read than everyone else and he needed to see magic working before he could understand all the complicated theories. The croissant smelled delicious, and he nibbled the edge, adding milk to his tea. 

“Look, see?” Sirius picked up Remus’s small sketchbook from the table and Remus watched carefully, uncomfortable with anyone touching his book full of weird drawings. 

Sirius waved his wand in a series of movements and the book began to dance across the table. “We’re making something dance across the table, but we’re doing all four basics in one.”

Remus watched the dancing notebook pensively for a long moment, his gears turning, things slotting into place. He chewed steadily. Then sipped. Took another bite, chewed and sipped again.

“Intuition, purpose, whimsey, and atmosphere.” Sirius said, indicating for Remus to take over the sketchbook as he reached again for his coffee. 

Remus flourished his wand, and he felt the magic ripple through his arm and wrap around his sketchbook. The dance changed from a hopping two step to a slow sort of chacha as it slowly made its way across the table. He sighed in relief, finishing the croissant, crumbs all down his brown sweater. 

“See?” Sirius beamed. “Just remember the four principles. Get the pineapple across the desk, and the rest will come easy.” 

Remus nodded, his brain slowing down with exhaustion, relief, and the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything since that morning. The tea was the perfect temperature and distractingly soothing. 

Seeming to read Remus’s thoughts, Sirius slid a chocolate frog across the table that he had produced from the pocket of his robe. Remus nodded, and his dancing book fell flat with a thud. He ate the proffered frog gratefully, realising how far he had pushed himself today. His hand shook slightly and his ears were ringing more than usual. 

While he was distracted by reading about Morgana the Dark Sorceress on his chocolate frog card and sipping his chamomile tea, Sirius had picked up Remus’s sketchbook and leafed through it. When Remus realised what he was doing, he froze. He hated people looking at his drawings. He felt self conscious about them, about their weirdness. It was something he did to busy his hands and occupy his mind and he didn’t necessarily like what they were when he was finished. 

“These are cool, mate.” Sirius said with an impressed nod as he continued to flip through the pages, while Remus sweat under his faded brown sweater. His foot began to jiggle again. Sirius stopped and looked up at him and must have seen something in his face.

“Sorry.” he finished a bit awkwardly, closing and putting the book down. “Come on, you need some sleep and you’ll need time for breakfast in the morning.”

Remus allowed himself to be pulled up from the chair and steered up the stairs. Sirius didn’t take his hands off of Remus’s shoulders until he playfully shoved him face first onto his bed. 

“Tell me more about charms.” Remus demanded, still feeling a bit on edge as he climbed under the blankets. 

Sirius sat on Remus’s bed in his silken robe and emerald green pyjamas and began reciting all the spell theories that came to his mind, while Remus lay down and let his voice wash over him. It wasn’t long before they both fell asleep. 

In the morning they woke with a start, Sirius half star-fished across Remus, both awkward and shy about having fallen asleep. 

“Good morning Gryffindor!” James announced loudly, yanking Remus’s bed hangings open. “It’s time for brekkies! Last minute studying for Flitwick in ten minutes! Up, up, up!”

Sirius groaned grumpily, rolling off the bed onto the floor in his usual dramatics, and Remus rubbed his eyes hard trying to rouse himself for the day ahead.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Peter begged and sputtered as James launched himself onto his half-sleeping form and began to roll himself up and down the length of the bed over Peter’s body, yelling _ “steam roll!” _ over and over again.

Later that day, Remus felt less like he was going to fail everything, more like he may be a competent student and decent wizard. Sirius gave him jovial pep talks and helped him practice his magic, and when they sat down in charms, he was able to dance that pineapple straight across the desk without any difficulties. 

Just after he had finished impressing Flitwick with his remarkable improvement at the tricky little charm, a paper star sank down onto the desk in front of him. He snatched it up quickly, not wanting Flitwick to see. He saw James received a similar one beside him reading;

_ Did Filius get taller? _

_ \- SOB _

Trying not to laugh, he unfolded his own paper. In an unhurried scrawl, neat and tidy, read; 

_ Remus John Lupin, _

_ You are a spectacular git. _

<strike> _\- SOB_ </strike>

_ \- Sirius _

______________

“Don’t you want anything?” James asked, eyeing Remus’s empty plate with concern and confusion. Peter was shovelling food in his mouth as fast as he could, the plate stacked high with french toast and bacon. He chewed loudly with his mouth open and Remus shuddered involuntarily against the sound as he picked at a new healing scab behind his ear. The Great Hall was loud today. Too loud, and Remus’s skin felt too tight. 

James was still dishing himself eggs and toast, but Remus had nothing. Glancing at Sirius he noticed that he too, was skipping breakfast, his eyes distant and distracted. He was unusually quiet and unlike his normal boisterous self. James looked worriedly between all three of his friends, concern clear on his face for each of their holidays.

Remus shook his head and his left foot jiggled slightly under the bench where it crossed over his right ankle. His hands moved to sit beneath his chin where his thumb swept over an old scar. 

He, James and Sirius were leaving on the train today for the Christmas holiday and he couldn’t stomach anything, full of jittery nerves as he was. He often couldn’t stomach much. Exams were the worst, usually, unless it was the week before the full moon, then he couldn’t eat anything no matter what was happening. He was nervous about going home, about leaving his friends, about being with his dying mother. 

How things had changed.

“You must be hungry for _something_.” Peter implored, speaking around a mouth full of bacon. 

Remus suppressed the urge to grimace at the wet noise coming from Peter’s full mouth and said, looking intensely at his third cup of tea, ”I’m fine with this for now, I’ll eat on the train.”

“Here, then, take some toast— you know the trolley doest come until late. You too, Sirius.” James said in his maternal and pushy voice as he handed wrapped toast to both Remus and Sirius. They both nodded and took the plain toast in its thin serviette, knowing that refusing would be more trouble than it was worth. 

Sirius sipped at his coffee wordlessly. He made eye contact with the fifth year Slytherin prefect from across the great hall. She shook her head ever so slightly, turning back to the sea of silver and green. 

Remus avoided thinking about why he liked being so empty all the time. And, why, today, Sirius might, too.


	3. Baudelaire, Baudelaire

_ December 20, 1971  _

It was custom for the Blacks of London to arrive a day before the winter solstice. They would portkey to Rouen, trussed up in their traveling cloaks and robes of deepest greens, silver filigree at the hems, ruffles and lace and little serpent cufflinks on dainty, pale wrists that they’d protect from the winds of winter in dragon-hide gloves. Sirius and Regulus both tied their hair back, wavy and dark along their spines. 

This year had been no different in that respect, traditions all the same, though Sirius had been yanked aside by his mother once in the safety and relative anonymity of France, and her narrowed eyes had raked across him, her fingers tight around his wrist, long nails biting into his flesh. Dragonhide be damned. 

It was the first time she had addressed him since the evening he had arrived back on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place. That evening she had grabbed his wrist, heavy breaths thick with the stench of port along his cheek. She had pulled him under the eaves and past the ancient ironwood door in what was now such a familiar fashion it had become maternal, even. She had dragged him down to the room beside the kitchen, and in that first greeting, she had dislocated his arm. 

It was no matter, as she had beaten him bloody that whole rest of the night and on into the small hours of the morning. She had hexed him and cursed him and she had deigned to thrash his skin with a whip she had only ever reserved for house elves, screaming all the while how dare he, how dare he turn against her. How dare he wound her like this, forsake her. What imposter was he that had possessed her child. Her little serpent. Her perfect boy. Now ruined. Now nothing. A dull brute. Undeserving of his name. 

In the end she had resorted to her own hands, and her fingers had closed tight around his neck until he remembered no more, whispers of how he stained her womb forever loud in his ears and the smell of port so relentless. Awakening the next morning, tucked into his bed upstairs, Kreacher brought him a sparse breakfast on a silver tray as if nothing were amiss, as if nothing had come to pass. A stark denial that, yes, everything had changed. 

“You are an embarrassment and a disgrace. You are only coming along to keep up with appearances so that we may not ruin ourselves and our reputation any further. It’s bad enough Druella’s cretin of a child has run off with that mudblood and she’s off to Malfoy manor to secure a match for Cissy, young as she is. It was a mistake to wait with the middle child, clearly.” His father had turned to look what was keeping them, and Sirius caught his disinterested gaze while his mother hissed in his ear. 

“You will sit with us, but you will not speak unless spoken to, and only to say what is necessary for politeness and nothing further. Am I understood? Not a single word about your heretical placement at that useless institution.” She had straightened up and addressed her husband next, “I knew we should have sent him to Beauxbatons. And the mess with the Chevallier brat will need to be smoothed over.” 

“Yes, mother.” Sirius said it softly into the winter wind. She wasn’t listening, in any case. His father looked away to check his pocket watch, disinterested in their old argument, and Sirius looked down at his shoes. A toe of one was scuffed already. His mother noticed and she made an undisguised noise of disgust. Her magic, so often peppered with pain, felt like cold water along his spine. The bruises beneath his robes ached in a familiar, familial way. The high collar of his ruffled shirt hid fingermarks as well as any spell could have, and Sirius thought about how she left them purposefully. Reminders. Warnings. 

He did his best to hide them from Regulus. 

From Rouen, they apparated across the Forêt Domaniale de Roumare to the unplottable gates of Baudelaire, where they alighted, as was custom, into Berline coaches drawn by black Percherons, manes braided and tied with red yarn, tails hidden in thick cobs. Their backs, broad and dappled, were fluid beneath their harnesses, soft leather and gold hardware, their necks deeply flexed and their feathers long and silky. 

In those early years when they had made this now familiar journey, Sirius would peek beyond the lace curtains that hung across the carriage windows to catch glimpses of the vineyards, dormant and lifeless in the depths of winter, the orchard, just as leafless and still, and at the backs of the great horses, at their perfect discipline, at their mirrored movements. Such careful obedience, it felt obscene. 

It was just that. Obscene. He had realised it one late December morning when he had risen early, on the tails of the winter sun. He must have been about six or seven then, his own magic still very new but customs and tradition old and worn already, and it was that very morning he’d seen the first percheron die. 

In the early frost, the great black stallion, Pride of Baudelaire, had made an impassioned bid for freedom, endeavouring to leap over the white paddock fence, near invisible in the grey white of the snowy morning just west of the orchard. He had misjudged the feat and instead fallen on the wooden bar, which had splintered and lodged itself deep within the stallion’s heaving chest, and his breath became erratic puffs of steam in the still winter air. 

Sirius had rushed to the window at the first sound of the crash, the cracking of the wood and the shrill, terrifying whinnying scream the stallion had made as he fell. Sirius had made it to the frosted glass to see the great animal stumbling in the snow along the drive, struggling to remain upright, stake driven hard and deep into his sternum, bright red blood blossoming from his wound and into the snowy ground, a trail darker, half congealed in his wake. 

Just moments later, the pride of Baudelaire had stopped, then fallen, blood now streaming from his frothy mouth and nose, spattering the snow, legs kicking and flailing and trembling. His whinnies became softer and more desperate, and the cold morning reverberated with his regrets. His pain. And then he had died. Just there in the snow. And it had seemed, perhaps, freedom was a dangerous thing, after all. 

But that was years ago now, and, at the top of that same drive, they’d soon be announced and step out onto little footstools to greet their many flaxen-haired second and third cousins in French, giving kisses on each rouged cheek, bored looks upon their faces as they declared how fine the French countryside was for their constitution, and how England sought to ruin it. And so, as their parents said, it had been for generations. 

His kin of his age, Elsa and Isadora Chevallier, would always courtesy with their gazes low, as was custom, but they would laugh into their pinafores when their parents turned their backs and the four of them would play hide and seek for ages in the frosted gardens. 

This year had been different, though, and Elsa had met him with a frown and decided frostiness. Isadora had whispered later, as the two of them sat on the back garden’s marble steps, sharing a quick drink of stolen champagne, that her family had rowed something awful with Walburga, and the match between the two cousins had been called to question. Elsa was now to be promised to a sickly youth of the family Moreau, with whom she’d never gotten on. So, it seemed, Black and Chevallier ties relied on her and Regulus to match. What drama, indeed. Baudelaire, Baudelaire. 

At the solstice the following evening, they practiced the old spells in the old ways, giving penance and sacrifice to deities Sirius had known from childhood, yet thought little of, mouthing the words in French as he had learned them in his youngest years, thinking more of the feasts that were to follow and the sips of mead and mulled wine he would be allowed. About the bottles he would sneak back up to their shared room, where he’d practice the drunknenness of the adults and find solace in the respite it gave him. About the disgust that would eventually sit heavy in his gut and the endless rounds of retching and heaving he’d do, just to make it go away. As was custom. 

This winter, he sat up and watched the moon among the clouds and the faint droplets of stars, nestled far and unconcerned within the firmament. He thought of the four poster bed in the tower that looked over a deeper, darker woodland, yet one that never filled his heart with half the fear as the one that stretched before him now. He thought of his first best friend he’d made. James, with his thick glasses and his smile that always looked so bright against his dark skin. He thought of Peter and his roundness, how soft and human he could be. He thought lots of how they both never seemed to feel compelled to feign the hardness, the austerity of the wizarding children he had known. 

And Remus. Sad Remus. Always so hurt. So hungry and clothes so threadbare. Yet, Remus, who loved his mother and father and spoke longingly of home. Home, which he made sound like afternoons of cupcakes and butterfly kisses. And his mother reading him stories (from something called a “public” library) before bed. His mother, who was muggle. And who was ill. 

Sirius was not shocked, though he pretended to be, to hear she had not be allowed treatment at St. Mungo’s Hospital. It was there in the name, wasn’t it? A hospital for magical maladies and injuries? It was uncle Cygnus who had lobbied for the hospital to be magical-only, and it had been a rather heated topic of discussion at Baudelaire some long-ago winter, as a fool named Longbottom had put on quite the show of trying to convince the Wizengamot that their magical remedies could be extended to muggles who already knew of the wizarding world, who had married into wizarding families. Some such nonsense about ethics that all his uncles and cousins and aunts and even he had laughed down in a fit of drink, picking little quail bones from between their teeth. 

Preposterous, uncle Cygnus had said, and he’d paid handsomely for the vote to teeter in his favour. Now, Sirius wondered again what the harm would be in letting his friend’s mother live, if they could. He wanted to write to Remus, but something about his cosseted life at Baudelaire and his proximity to such painful, evil things made him feel dirty, and far more ashamed than he had ever been before. He was quiet, instead. Subdued. And, like the surviving black horses in the snowy fields, he made no move to fall upon his many swords. 

On the afternoon of the fourth day at Baudelaire, Sirius valiantly ignored the relentless pounding of his head. He rolled the dark bottle across the floor beneath the lacy skirting of the bed, and let himself focus in on the soft patter of dress shoes along the antique powder blue Persian runner down the east wing hall, then the clip of the same soles on the more proletariat wooden stairs that darted back, above the kitchens. The sound was high and a bit hollow because the unworn soles fell on maple, not stone. Servants stairs were wooden, as was custom. 

Soft, white marble was for the wide steps and elegant banisters of the grand staircase in the front hall of the chateau. Two staircases met, then joined and scalloped into the grand parlour, glass doors beyond opening to the lawn that sloped gently down across the valley to the river Seine. Bannisters along the two converging stairs were deeply carved centuries ago, marble etched with scenes of the fae, twisted and spiteful and suspended in their malice and misery, so artfully capped in places with a gold patina, brushed along their cheekbones and lashes, painting their eyes closed. 

Full and feigned laughter off in the distant rooms downstairs had been drifting up for hours now. It came from the east wing between chinks of champagne flutes with hollow stems and paused while sips of Dom Pérignon passed over rouged lips and sharpened teeth, into the gullets of the adults, already so flush and mean with drink. “ _ Toujours pur _ ” they all cried together, and their throats opened wide. 

The afternoon tea and hors d’oeuvres had kept his brother busy, little hands on big keys, dancing across the ivory of a grand piano, central to the great room of the east wing. There Regulus had sat, centre to their revolving reverie, stroking the dead to make music.  _ Mon dieux _ , they loved it. He could hear another pop and joyful twittering as another cork left the dark bottles. A contrived shriek, and he imagined aunt Jaqueline, mother to Elsa and Isadora, with her powdered wig and soft pink bustles that fanned out from imaginary hips, corset cinched tight to bend her very bones. He imagined her open-mouthed in raucous enjoyment at the streaming swathes of foam. 

He imagined her horror and delight that the golden liquid might have spilled across the tenth century hand-woven rug of the great room, a design that had blinded no less than fifty peasant weavers, so great uncle Elagabalus had oft reminded them. Sirius could clearly imagine how he would tell his stories tossing rose petals from his dinner jacket pockets as he circumambulated the piano, an homage to his namesake, a vulture riding gyres. 

He imagined the punishment dear Jaqueline would mete out for that glorious fountain of spilled champagne, days later, when she had conveniently forgotten that it was she who had demanded they open the thick glass bottle themselves. Days after her sickness of the drink had abated, long enough for her to find new delight in the screaming of the elves. 

What fresh blood would taint the stones in the rooms below the foundation, Sirius wondered. Who would clean what spilled down there in the dark, earthy rooms beneath the teak furniture with artfully swollen legs and the fine china that rattled whenever the magic was strong and mean. Wedgewood blue with little busts of fair maidens, surrounded by the fleur de lys and other, less poignant flowers. How the family enjoyed disembodied heads, floating, on display. They too, like the fleur, made such recognisable symbols of power. As in England, it was in France. Sirius had learned these things from a young age. Baudelaire, Baudelaire. 

Sirius had heard the moment the piano stopped playing, a lovely note hanging long and petulant in the air, and he had counted the seconds, imagining the simpering praise and half pandering applause, though perhaps they were all too laden with the aperitifs to notice, aunt Jaqueline’s lipstick on her drunken teeth. 

The reverie below was dampened only by the occasional rattle of the winter wind over glass panes in old metal frames, buffeted by ivy, cosseted in stone. Still, he counted. 

Sirius stood at the same fateful window, patent leather shoes black over white socks, folded over at the ankle, a hem of lace around them, peeking out beneath his dainty trouser leg. He was gazing out across the front lawn as he thought about the seconds slipping away, gardens hemmed in boxwoods and rose beds, laid to rest for the winter. There was a dusting of powdery snow across the scene, and barren trees hedged the woodlands beyond. 

It seemed timeless, to him. Timeless and insidiously still, as if nothing could disrupt the chateau and its inhabitants from their rituals, from their roles, from their laughter full of hidden things. A place divorced from the world without, suspended. Unreal. Just an endless stream of parties where they danced and dined atop the blood and bones and misery of those buried beneath, sometimes within, the walls, pretty toile paper pasted over holes where no one was ever expected to find rest, let alone peace. Yet, the debauched still danced along, unconcerned. 

Only the roses were tended with that scarcity, kindness, and perhaps it was only them, for they too were capable of drawing blood with their own careful brand of cruelty, and that was something worth respecting. Something worth reverence. 

Every year, this scene replayed. Every year, he stood and looked and wondered, the vastness of Rouen and the forests of northern France splayed before him. Beneath him. 

Regulus and his footsteps had since reached the door and turned the polished brass, voices filtering up the old servants stairs to the room in which the brothers always found themselves staying, keyhole large and ancient and designed for spying, locked at night and sometimes in the day by one of the many nameless house elves that shuffled between rooms, unseen and unrecognised amid the revery. The dream. 

“ _ Bella a fait équipe... le garçon, oui... Lestrange. Et Druella... envoie ... que les Malfoy accepteront. Nous avons... chance, semble-t-il. _ ” 

The door shut quietly behind the smaller boy, velvet bow still tied at the nape of his neck, white gloves peeking from where they had been hastily stuffed into his jacket pocket. 

Sirius turned back to the window. 

“It was lovely music, Regulus.” His voice was cold, though he didn’t mean it to be. It’s only habit, and he let himself be distracted by the little eddies of snow, spinning and swirling in the December wind. The timelessness. The cold. 

“I’m sorry they didn’t let you play. You always keep better time than me. I struggle to play the Wieniawski alone. It’s not really meant for just one of us, variations on an original theme.” Regulus was unbuttoning the front of his waistcoat and slipped off his patent dress shoes, such a vulgar, human act, not permissible in the world downstairs. 

Sirius smiles, for he does permit it, but he is distracted from the thought by the sounds of dogs barking, carried up to the chateau on a gust of wind from the stables, which lay beyond the orchard to the west. He doesn’t look back at his brother, his brother who is so slight and meek and, yes, he did always struggle with the timing, though at least he does not show the bruises and the burns that their mother had used to motivate Sirius, to ensure he had learned the Wieniawski, Chopin and Vivaldi so well. 

“They’ll never let me play again, you know. Not here, at Baudelaire. Not after what I’ve done. What I’ve become.” Sirius smiled still. 

Had he been a boy like his brother, a boy of another constitution, Sirius thought that this treatment was meant to make him feel ashamed. Guilty. To beguile him into slithering back into his house of snakes, docile and ready to swallow their vitriol like the Dom Pérignon, _ toujours pur _ on his lips and that sharp need for a child to be loved by his family in his heart. They had not counted on his stubbornness, his lust for survival, something they had, perhaps unknowingly, beaten into him themselves. 

They had not counted on him meeting a boy like Remus Lupin, let alone his muggle mother, who sounded kind and who loved her boy with all her muggle heart. The kind of love and kindness that Sirius had listened to with first shock and then a kind of gut-eating envy that gnawed at him while he fell asleep. Sometimes drifting off to Remus telling stories of how she bought him comics and they would walk together, hand in hand. How she talked on the telly-phone to Ethel while she combed Remus’s hair and let him fill in the rest of her Sunday crossword. And how Sirius had nearly withered away at the idea of such loving and gentle  _ touch _ . His skin had burned with the idea of it. 

They had not counted on Sirius learning that this was not the kind of mother of whom he was ashamed or scared or disgusted. All these stories taught Sirius was that, for all the wealth and riches of the ancient and most noble house of Black, his parents had deprived him of something that had cost nothing and for which he had been most desperate. Kindness, even love. 

“The hunt will start soon. I saw grandfather Pollux getting out his shadbelly.” 

“They haven’t caught one since 1824, Regulus, I doubt this will be the year that changes. Let them have their drunken horse ride through the snow. We can only hope one falls and lays forgotten in the Seine and all the warming droughts in the world won’t recall them from the cold. Let it be Pollux, this year.” 

“What a horrid thing to say, Sirius.” 

“Is it, Regulus? Is it horrid to wish death upon those who hunt others for sport? You’ve heard the stories, brother. They used to draw and quarter them. Like meat. The snow that would track behind them into the stables used to blush red with blood. Baudelaire, indeed.”

“Those are only stories. It’s just a tradition. It’s heritage. It’s a skill, and an honour to hunt with them. I wish I could go.” 

Sirius made a deep and angry noise in his throat. He didn’t know what to do with his brother’s romance with the chateau and it’s sweeping lawns and boxwood hedges. With having soirees and playing piano in the great room while men offered hands to ladies, their waltzes always between the soft silk of white gloves. No skin. No humanity. Let not their blood mingle too close. 

Such an irony this was, such a farce, for not long after drinks were served they would start to profess their lust for the blood of muggles, rather, and they would hasten to ride off into the woods late into the night, barking dogs and local legends thick in the winter solstice air, the houses of the villages beyond all locked tight and candles snuffed in windowsills. 

Sirius didn’t know what to make of his little brother’s fascination with the politics they would prattle on about over pâté and, later, the sinister things they would arrange over steaming rabbit stew, gluttonous and rosy cheeked in their decadence, shadbellies long since traded for dinner jackets and intrigue. 

And then, the hateful things they’d profess above the rim of a tumblr full of cognac, retired to the library, the ladies off to bed, dinner jackets removed and cufflinks discarded, sleeves rolled up beyond their elbows, waistcoats tight and straining. The pipe smoke and the repartees would become altogether devious. Cruelty rising up in ringlets like the blue smoke that hung above creaking leather chairs, their French fast and harder to follow. 

Regulus and he, in the years before, used to sneak outside the library door late in the winter nights at Baudelaire, Sirius peering through the gaping bronze keyhole and Regulus with his ear below the door. They used to gasp and stifle exclamations as the men of their foreign family tree talked of the sport of killing. Talked of blood and bone and punishment and a whole manner of sharp and brutal things. 

It had seemed so abstract then, in those early days, not quite innocent, but youthful and unconcerned with the pain and the humanness Sirius would one day share with those beyond the great family Black and its influence. Then, they listened at the keyhole and made grand schemes of their own, mirroring the nastiness with which they had been tutored. 

It was the winter solstice, the year before this, that Sirius had stopped listening, long before he had ever met one Remus Lupin and the stories of his muggle mother. 

No, the year before this solstice, Sirius had snuck out on their second night at Baudelaire, compelled by the glow and the promise of luck under the last quarter moon. He had climbed out the rickety window of the bedroom above the scullery, shimmying down the ivy and onto the pergola, reinforced by an ancient wisteria vine, barren and dusted in snow, tearing a trouser knee in the ungainly process, cheeks bright and rosy in the cold. 

It was that night he had stolen off past the orchard and to the stables, just after the hunt had set off, bugles sounding at the thunder of hooves on the wet earth, fascinated with the ritual, with their tweed coats and their malice. 

Escaping the cold and the howling winter wind, Sirius had slipped into the barn itself, sneaking past stall after stall of towering black percherons, then warmbloods, and two liver chestnut navarrins, their big eyes and swivelling ears following his progress down the centre aisle. Soft, velveteen noses reached for the small curve of his palm as he passed, long necks arched over swooped doors. Their nostrils flared and breaths were huffed experimentally into his skin in the quiet of the stable. 

Toward the back of the barn, Sirius passed the tack room full of Butets and the smell of well-oiled leather, marvelling at the elegant stitching across browbands and the shining silver bits. Pelhams and ports, snaffles— loose rings and french links. He let his fingers ghost along the leather, soft and supple in his hands, a stark contrast to the cold metal of the bits, though he touched them too, and he let the warmth of him dissipate into the steel, sweet iron and copper, and he thought about how the taste of the metal helped the horses accept the bit. Accept their servitude. Accept obedience. That sweetness was but a tool, much like the whips, crops and bats that were displayed along the far wall. Dressage whips that stung and little flat bats that made such terrible noises, and then, at the back, the lunge whips that he had first learned how to crack. 

He was pulled from his ruminations by small noises that drifted in from the empty stalls near the back of the barn. He left the room of soft leather and the smell of oil, following the centre aisle down to the very last stall on the left, one that just housed bales of hay and bags of molasses sweetened grain. It was here that Sirius heard the sounds, transformed from small and unformed noise to distinct whimpering, high pitched and distressed. 

He pulled the metal latch and rolled back the wooden stall door, looking down to find one of the hounds, brown and white spots and big amber eyes, gazing up at him from a makeshift bed in a disarticulated flake of hay. Six puppies nursed at her swollen nipples. Their little bodies were mostly pink and wet from her methodical cleaning, eyes not yet open but mouths so very hungry, pushing aside their siblings, a technique they’d learned even before they’d left their mother’s womb. He had never seen something so furtive and alive, primal and private, and he stared at them, hand still poised precariously on the latch of the stall door, foot halfway to a step closer, unsure. 

It was only then that he took note that the squeaking trills and cries were coming, not from one of the nursing puppies or their mother, but from a seventh newborn, one that had tumbled from the bed of hay and found itself alone and discarded on the packed earthen floor below. 

Her dark fur and black nose trembled with her little cries, and the mother hound looked on, unperturbed by the plight of her smallest child, who had been born only to be offered nothing but the coldness and the hunger of the world. 

“Oh,” was all Sirius could say, and he found himself stepping forward, lifting her little body beneath his own tweed coat, tucking her below his cashmere sweater and against the warmth of his skin, where she trembled and whined even still, and he stroked her newborn fur and shushed her sweetly, hurrying back up the aisle and to the warmth of the chateau. Soft nickers followed him as he left. 

He had hidden her in the room he shared with his brother, giving her milk and raw egg he requested from the elves, lying and maintaining it was for a mixture to soften his hair, to make it silky and shine like the blonde waves of his French cousins. 

But it had been to feed his newborn pup, who had squealed with delight and suckled and bit at the tips of his fingers as he dipped them in the milk, and Sirius’s accidental, childish magic had poured forth as silencing charms, desperate to protect her. She had growled and her back legs, which had been too light to hold her to the ground, had lifted as her face was dunked into the mixture of milk and egg, at which she lapped hungrily. “Little Leonie, I’ll call you.” Sirius had said, stroking her as she ate, her belly swelling with milk and egg and the kindness of a boy who knew of both hunger and cold, though no one would have guessed it. “Little lion.” And he bathed her in the washroom sink.

“Mother won’t approve,” Regulus had said nervously, timid in his approach of the little creature, who had been just so thankful for his brother’s tentative strokes of her little black ears and her tremulous black tail as he towelled her dry of the warm water. She no longer smelled of dusty hay and neglect, and she slept the night curled against Sirius’s chest, sharing warmth and the steady comfort of his breaths. 

Regulus had been right, of course. Mother had killed little Leonie the moment she had found her. Two days later when she had stomped up to their room, furious that they were late to be called to dinner. An embarrassment. A faux pas that could not go unpunished. 

She had said the spell and there had been green light, and little Leonie lay dead on the floor. They’d left back to London the next morning, and Sirius had learned that others may be punished for his disobedience. 

And that had been the year before. The year before Sirius received his letter and went along to Hogwarts. The year before the sorting hat saw bravery and courage, saw a little lion in his heart. And Sirius had donned red and gold and vowed to be something different than cruel. He vowed to be the person who would have, could have, saved Leonie, though he told no one of her short, sad life and the way it twisted up his insides. 

And now, this year, he had no stomach for the hunts. The traditions. The politics and the whispered prejudice. The library and the secrets. Suddenly, he found himself at every meal with a velvet black bow tied in his hair and no appetite for the roast pheasant between himself and his aunt Jaqueline, his mother and father looming on his right, knives and forks carving deep into the cooked bird, his poor brother, still so afraid they wouldn’t love him, unaware they were incapable of such pedestrian, peasant things, on his left. Baudelaire, Baudelaire. 

So he drank of the champagne and craved nothingness instead. 

When they stood in cloaks on the eve of the new year and recited the old spells, he felt no magic within him. Spells became just words, and his heart instead spoke soft and gentle prayers that the dead who lay in the cold ground of Baudelaire could find peace and he could find courage. 

This year, Sirius let his plate at the feast of the New Year lay empty before him. Polished cutlery remained so, untouched, foxes and fawns, grouse and duck, forest creatures etched expertly into the silver, unaware of the irony of their scenes. His stomach growled, but he let it and thought instead of little Leonie. Baudelaire, Baudelaire. 

When they returned to London, Sirius had packed his things and waited. 

The night before she allowed him to leave, Walburga had called Sirius down to the music room, draped across a silver settee, port in hand when he arrived, bowing in the doorway, as was custom. 

“Yes, mother?” He glanced around the dark room with the heavy drapes across the high windows. The steinway that Regulus played was angled in the corner, his stradivarius lay atop the cushioned bench beside it. 

Sirius bit his tongue, swallowing down the unfairness of it all. She would ask him to play, and he hadn’t practiced since before he’d left for Hogwarts. She’d punish every mistake. And he would, he knew, make mistakes. 

“Play the Chopin I like, Sirius. Nice and sharp now.” She was looking at him across the rim of the port glass, swirling it gently. 

Sirius crossed the room obediently, so familiarly resigned. He didn’t dare refuse her. Stinging hexes and little burns he would survive, but a refusal? She would choke him into the darkness again, and his shoulder was still resoundingly sore. No, not the night before he left. He would behave. 

He had survived another solstice at Baudelaire, her perfect little pureblood gentleman. He had been quiet and austere. He had quipped laissez-faire with Great Uncle Arcturus, and not once mentioned the irony of it’s core tenant. Of individual freedom. He had danced a beautiful waltz with cousin Adalene at the New Year. He’d bowed and kissed the back of her white gloved hand as the music ended, approving nods from the family Black at the edges of the gilded ballroom. 

He had appeared bored and disinterested, no hint of the things that pulled at his insides, as he had raided the wine cellar and decanted vintages of centuries ago directly between his own lips and teeth. He had kept his bruises to himself. 

No, he had been unpunishable there. Perfect. And now, she had asked for the Chopin. Of course she would ask for the Chopin. A piece slow and sombre and tremulous with apology. She wanted that from him. Penance. 

Sirius leaned down and ran the fingers of his left hand along the neck of the violin, the wood so soft and familiar and forgiving beneath him. A smile tugged at his lips. Maple. Like the servant stairs. He grasped the instrument, fluidly bringing it up to his chin, his right hand finding the bow of its own accord, the familiar ritual of tuning the beautiful instrument distracting him a moment, anchoring him. His feet on solid ground. 

She wanted Nocturne, he knew. He breathed deeply, flexing his fingers, stretching them before dragging the bow across the strings, barely thinking of the music, relying on the muscle memory of the piece she had forced him to play so many nights, so many endless evenings, she had demanded he play until he could no longer stand. 

“With feeling, Sirius Orion Black, son of your father and child of my flesh.” Her voice was goading, like needles pressing sharp and uninvited into the softest parts of his skin. A warning. 

He leaned into the notes and let them run across his lips and tongue and teeth, slow and beautiful and all the apology she would ever get from him.

He played, and he closed his eyes to the dark room with it’s serpentine accents and the crowned molding that tried so hard to dress up a room so sinister. So full of painful memories, as haunting as the music. His mind flitted back to little Leonie and the whimpering cries she had made. Desperate for love. For warmth. For shelter from the cold, hard truths of this world. 

_ Remembering is only a new form of suffering.  _

He felt his shoulder fall as he moved through Nocturne, weakened, still healing from the night he had returned home. Not home. The night he had returned to Grimmauld Place. This place had never been a home. The thought came to him quickly and easily as he poured himself into the long and perilous notes of Chopin’s achingly lovely design. He could not make a home in a world he never belonged. A world where Leonie and her little cries were worth death. 

The sound of his falling shoulder was unnatural and ugly in the music, and he knew, even as it happened, that it could never go unnoticed. Unpunished. 

He tried his best to play through the pain, the spasming of his muscles, the way his shoulder complained around each wavering draw of his bow, he kept his eyes closed tight and willed himself through the unnatural tightness in his arm, through the pins and needles in his fingers. Through the tears that were threatening the corners of his eyes. 

He had not seen her throw the glass, but he felt it shatter around his feet, the smell of port suddenly so strong. So clear. 

He played on, brow furrowed, determined not to let her scare him, but the notes were stuttered and confused, and he could feel her rage building, darkening, simmering, poisoning the room. Another horrid note off key and Sirius opened his eyes to see her reach for her wand. He forgot to breathe. 

_ Crucio _ . 

The music stopped. He fell to the floor. 

“You are not my son. You vile, evil little thing. You try to pretend you are one of us, but I know my son, my son, my firstborn, he could play me my Chopin. Could play it perfectly.”

Unimaginable shocks seared from the tips of his fingers down into his toes, and he was thoughtless, inhuman, writhing in agony on the floor. There was nothing but the suffering. 

Through a haze of blinding light and electric, exquisite pain, Sirius saw her rise from the settee and walk to his twisting form, port seeping into his frilled blouse, staining it. Shards of glass made pretty ribbons of his shirt, then strips of his exposed flesh. Eventually, the pain ebbed, and he looked up into his mother’s face, panting, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Mother, I—” and she spat in his face. 

“How dare you.” Each word she punctuated by stomping the thick heel of her boot onto his left hand, still curled around the neck of the 1698 Stradivarius, the little bones crunching beneath the onslaught, and then the maple was fractured, too. Damaged beyond repair. 

She stared down at him a moment, disgust plain on her face. And then she left. Sirius lay cradling his broken hand to his chest, the violin in two pieces on the floor, only succumbing to the sobbing once he was sure that she was gone. 

It was hours before Kreacher came to mend his hand and drag him up to bed. He dreamt of the Pride of Baudelaire, thrashing in the field. 

Red blood, white snow, black horse. 

______________

Sirius stood facing the window, stretching his fingers out before him, curling them back toward his palm slowly, easing the stiffness that had settled there. 

The Hogwarts Express rocked gently beneath him, rhythmic and soothing, the English countryside that spilled away from London now peppered with stone walls and snowy fields. He had pulled off his velvet travelling cloak and stowed his trunk as soon as he had found an empty compartment, rolling the sleeves of his white blouse up past his elbows. He had taken out his wand and practiced concealment charms on the rest of his bruises, the yellowed marks fading nicely into his pale skin. 

He stood and watched the countryside, stretching out his shoulders, his arms, his back, trying his best to push away the tightness that had settled there. He untied his hair and threw the little strip of velvet to the floor, shaking out his long, wavy hair. 

The compartment door slid open behind him, and a joyful cry of “There you are, you right bugger!” Sirius turned at once to smile at his closest of friends, the stress and the strain on his body seeming to melt away in the wake of his exuberant greeting. James radiated the excitement and happiness of finally finding his brother in arms, half falling into the compartment to grab Sirius into a hug, slapping his back and grinning like a loon. 

“We’ve been looking for you! Got caught up arguing with Evans about the statute of secrecy again. Blimey she’s like a thorn in the eye.” James dropped himself unceremoniously onto the compartment bench, “Remus is coming now.” 

Sirius sat across from him, crossing his legs on the bench, basking in the ease at which James had reunited them all. It was only moments before Remus popped his head around the still half-open door. 

“Ah, young master Black! What a pleasure.” Remus said, albeit mockingly, pausing to dip toward Sirius and issue a mock salute as he shuffled in, a tired smile stretching the scars on his freckled face. Sirius wadded up his travelling cloak and threw it at him. James slipped down in his seat, overcome with a fit of giggles. 

Remus had taken to calling him such pompous, ugly things since the night he’d forgotten himself and summoned a house elf, as if he had still been cosseted betwixt the ancient walls of a private wizarding home. James had heard the story of their late night study session the following afternoon, Remus all shocked and bemused by this side of their, to their knowledge, sincerely unrefined friend. 

“Remus, you hound. How was your Christmas?” Sirius leaned forward with one elbow on his knee, chin in his hand. His fingers still had a dull ache, but the discomfort was flung far to the back of his mind as he grinned at his two friends. The first two friends he had ever made, really. Well, the first friends he’d made on his own, that weren’t introductions. Arrangements between families. Sirius hadn’t known that friends could be warm and funny and loyal. That they could be anything other than cold and lofty and politically advantageous. 

No, these two, and Peter (who, no doubt, was eagerly awaiting the trio’s return), were everything but that. They were his constant companions. 

Suddenly, Sirius had a family. 

And this thought flitted back and forth to the front of his mind as they sped across the sprawling English countryside and into the Scottish highlands, on the tails of the setting sun, eating chocolate frogs and blowing bubbles with Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, much of which managed to get stuck in Remus’s hair. 

It wasn’t until they’d gotten back to the castle and reunited with Peter, Remus off to the showers, that James had pulled Sirius and Peter aside, all of them piled onto James’s four poster. James had let his joyful grin be replaced with a crease in his brow and a frown. 

“Mates, I’m worried about Remus. Something is wrong at home.” Ice filled Sirius’s stomach. 

“Well, his mother is sick, isn’t she? That can’t be a nice holiday.” Peter said softly. 

“No, it’s something more than that, Pete. He was full of bruises. He looked exhausted. I mean, the kids covered in scars and I counted about four more new ones from just this visit home. Something is up. Nobody should come from home with bruises.” 

Sirius stared at the gold tassels that kept back the red hangings, his fingers tracing nonsensical patterns across James’s bedspread. Nobody  _ should _ come from home with bruises. But he did. He always had. Didn’t other parents punish their children? 

“I’m sure it’s nothing. We shouldn’t meddle.” Sirius said quickly, just as James and Peter were both raring up to speculate. 

“Sirius how can you say that? Someone’s hurting him!” James looked shocked, and he resumed chewing at the corner of his thumb, obviously worried to pieces over the welfare of their friend. Their fourth in the family. 

Sirius shrugged. “He seems happy enough.” He got off James’s bed and sauntered over to his own trunk, ducking beneath the welcome back banner that Peter had charmed to flit about the room. “Plus, it’s not that unusual for parents to discipline their children.” 

He could feel the eyes of James and Peter on his back as he fished his spellbooks out of his trunk and arranged them on the shelf across the room. 

“I mean, my mum did smack my butt really hard once when I was six. I’d taken out a set of crayons and drawn all over this very fancy painting she had.” James said quietly, brow seeming to crease even further. “She apologises for it all the time now, though.” 

Peter looked up at James. “Your mom only did it once? I got a butt smack probably once a month for about a year. My mom was so angry once she gave me such a thrashing, I couldn’t sit for a whole two days. I’d snuck to the floo and tried to follow her on a date.” Peter rubbed his face with his hands, as if embarrassed, even now, by the memory. 

Sirius ignored them both, and the pregnant pause that followed, as if they were awaiting his thoughts on the matter. 

Eventually, since he felt like he needed to say something, Sirius muttered, “his mum’s sick. Let’s not make things worse for him.” The three of them silently agreed, though James still looked uncomfortable, and when Remus came back from the showers, they all tried hard not to take note of his wounds, young and old, that carved rivers up his flesh. 

_____________

January led into February, then March, and then all at once they were falling into spring, the castle cautiously warming in the new strength of the sun, the frost far less persistent in the potions dungeon, the greenhouses windows accumulating less and less steam in the lengthening days. The months had raced by with the same unceremonious familiarity and raucous joy as the first term, Sirius allowing the relative freedom of life at the castle rouse him into days full of decadent jokes and pranks, jibes and ruses, witty comebacks and sometimes, even, a jinx or two. 

It felt as though he were making up for lost time, perhaps. Making up for all the laughs and smiles and delights of the world he’d been denied. All the glorious hilarity of being alive. The humanness of it. He spent his days grinning and reclining, resplendent in a world that wasn’t full of rules and stringent austerity, prone to restless bouts of energy, thirst for new adventures, hungry for sights unseen. Almost nothing could deter him from it, not threats of detention or points being taken, everything was a laugh. Everything was for the pursuit of fun. 

It was on one of these warmer afternoons in April that Sirius and James were walking back up to the castle, cheeks red and flushed from an afternoon of flying-swooping and diving and both of them decadent with the glee and freedom of the air- school brooms they’d nicked from the shed clutched in their hands. Remus had been ill again, sequestered in the hospital wing, but Peter scurried along behind them, being a miserable flyer himself, he’d been watching them from the grounds below, practicing his transfiguration assignments, pocket full of white mice, some incompletely transformed. 

As they climbed the last of the hillside that curved around to the front entrance, they spotted a small group of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw fifth years, who must have been coming up from a late afternoon Care of Magical Creatures class, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at whatever was coming up the long drive from the gates that led to Hogsmeade beyond. 

Sirius and James hustled forward, Peter panting a bit to catch up, all three of them rounding the hillside and joining the other students, following their line of sight. 

“Ohhh!” Gasped Peter, followed by a “Blimey, that’s quite a get up, isn’t it?” from James. 

Sirius felt the earth fall away from him, and there was a hissing, buzzing noise in his ears. He lost track of what his friends were saying, and the excited murmuring of the older students became nothing next to the frantic pounding of his heart. He straightened his posture, schooled his face into a cold and distant expression, and stood firmly, his feet anchored to the little patch of grass at the edge of the long, winding drive that looped before the entrance to the castle. 

He listened to the familiar creak and rumble of the carriage, a growler this time, and the steady thudding of percheron hooves, unshod and soft on the thawing earth. Their black manes adorned with red yarn. His hand dropped the Cleansweep he had been carrying. 

As the horses halted, the coachman stepped down to open the carriage door, bowing deeply, as was custom. Orion Black then alighted, silver tipped cane polished and hair swept back, tied with a velvet ribbon, the tails of which were visible beneath a stately black top hat. 

Sirius automatically found himself stepping forward, bowing deeply himself, words, in well practiced French, poured from him like water from a carafe. 

“ _ Greetings Father, I graciously beg pardon for not preparing myself to welcome you, as is custom and my honour. _ ” Sirius stared at the gravel before him. He heard James and Peter shifting behind him, and silently begged them not to move forward. 

Orion Black looked down at his son, face so perfectly impassive. Bored. Disinterested. 

He answered in the same stilted French. “ _ Greetings child of my name. I grant you pardon for I purposefully did not tell you of this visit. I am here on official family business. I will not bore you with the details. _ ” 

Sirius righted himself and watched Orion pull the travelling gloves from his hands, folding them together to hold in the same hand as his polished cane. He felt James slip beside him as some of the fifth years made little twittering noises, and he imagined their raised eyebrows and whispers behind hands. 

“ _ This must be the Potter boy, then? And is that Pettigrew’s child? At least you have managed to surround yourself with proper families, blood of my ancestors. The lion house may not be as much of a mudblood haven as I had thought. Your mother will be pleased to hear it. I suppose anything is better than Hufflepuff. _ ” 

“ _ Yes, father. _ ” Sirius silently said prayers and gave thanks to the old gods that Remus hadn’t been present for this. He bowed again, head low and eyes on the earth below him. 

“Mister Black,” It was Minerva McGonagall’s voice now, piercing through the stilted quiet of the afternoon. “The headmaster is expecting you.” She sounded as stern and as severe as Sirius had ever heard her, and he recognised the sharpness in her voice, and the hawklike way in which she must have watched the scene unfolding below her. 

Orion Black sniffed once, eyes newly focused and narrowed at the woman who had addressed him, and he glided away, up the stairs and into the castle, Sirius still sunk in a half bow in his wake. 

“Who the ruddy hell was that? He looked like a minister. How do you know a minister? Was that french?” Came James’s shocked voice as the fifth years moved off up the marble stairs and back inside. Sirius tried hard to concentrate on breathing. His chest felt tight and uncomfortable. His face burned as though it was peppered with pins and needles. Flushed. Embarrassingly so. 

“Not a minister. My father.” Said Sirius softly, into the earth. He stared at the ground beneath his feet. So solid. Immovable. Untouched by the scene that unfolded around them. His skin itched and he envied the little stones. He heard the percherons stamp their unshod feet, one of them tossing his head restlessly in the carriage frame. How they both craved freedom. 

Peter and James were silent a very long moment. Sirius put his hands on his knees and stared at the ground. His mouth was very dry, indeed. 

“Mate,” James put his hand on Sirius’s shoulder. It was so soft and gentle and caring and Sirius exploded with how much it burned his skin. It felt like pity and fear and the same disgusting concern that James had for Remus when he came back from home with marks. Marks and scars and bruises he didn’t yet know how to heal on his own. 

Sirius straightened up at once, throwing James’s hand from him. 

“Leave it, James.” Sirius said, stalking over to the school broom he’d left, discarded on the ground. 

“Sirius…” It was Peter’s voice this time, and Sirius couldn’t stand the idea that this doughy, lump of a boy who was no great shakes at magic could be feeling bad for him. Could be concerned. 

“I said leave it, you dull twit.” And Sirius marched past where he had dropped the broom and back down the hillside to the quidditch pitch, anger and fear and other such childish things throbbing in his ears. 

______________

Hours later, Sirius was cold and feeling foolish. He had stalked away from the castle, down the cut grass of the far field, past the whomping willow and then right off into the forest. It had been a warm evening at first, but by the time the sun had set below the horizon to the west, and Orion Black had long since left the castle, the forest descended into a bone-chilling cold that was thick with memories of winter.

Sirius had wandered north for a bit, breathing hard and shredding leaves and bits of grass in his numb fingers, stewing in his anger. Then, he had tried to retrace his steps back to the south, following what he thought was the trail of destruction he’d left behind. After a while, he stepped in a pile of deer droppings, and he forced himself to admit he’d been misled along a well-used buck path. He decided to try again by just walking uphill. That ended with him summiting a rocky outcrop, surrounded by other rolling, forested hills. He could see the distant lights of the Hogwarts towers in the distance, however, so he stomped back off that direction. 

By midnight, he could admit to himself that he was lost. This was about an hour after he’d roundly kicked the buttress of an old wych elm, injuring his second toe quite badly in the process. 

Eventually, he climbed on top of a giant ironwood trunk, a tree that had long since fallen, moss growing across the patches that had divested themselves of the rough bark, though the wood beneath remained solid and strong. He brought his knees up to his chest, listening to the soft call of loons and hoots of owls, the occasional snap of twig or rustling leaves, then the insistent growling of his own stomach. 

He cast a warming charm, which helped stave off the worst of the chill, though not perfectly. He considered lumos, but it was the night after the full moon, and the round, white orb that hung at his back cast plenty of light in the clearing. 

Sirius hugged his knees and sighed, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly along the yew of his wand. He wasn’t scared. Not of the forest. Well, this forest. He’d just have to keep searching for a way back tomorrow. Find the high ground again, look for the turrets. Maybe climb a tree. He had his wand with him, and he didn’t really believe there was anything that dangerous in here, anyway. They’d been perfectly fine on their detentions and subsequent excursions. Not so much as an errant thorn in a foot. 

The big thing would be figuring out an excuse for why he’d been gone so long, maybe missed a few classes. McGonagall would murder him, most likely. Now, that was something to be a bit worried about. 

Sirius wondered if she’d believe he’d been dragged off by bastion of unchivalrous gnarls. He snorted a laugh at the thought. He tapped his wand against his knee, unthinking, and startled as little gold sparks shot from it and trailed to the ground. Wands of dragon heartstring are prone to accidents, it’s true, Sirius thought to himself idly, shaking the last of the sparks from the wand tip. He fished a unicorn hair from his pocket and tied his long hair up in a bun, then stowing his wand securely beneath the artful twist of hair atop his head, the tip pointed to the sky, as to avoid any other unfortunate or misguided spellwork. 

He’d inherited the wand from the Black family collection when he was four, and he’d had years to win the yew and dragon’s loyalty, but it was prone to stinging him from time to time, an artful reminder of his mother’s influences. 

Just beyond a little stand a birch, Sirius heard the rustling of branches and crunch of old leaves. Then frantic scuffling and a grunt. 

“Ouch, you pillock!” Came a wonderfully familiar voice, and Sirius felt a huge grin split his face. 

“Get ‘em, James!” Sirius called back, his voice flooded with joy and relief, and the wonder of the power of his friends. 

Three bright, sweaty faces appeared from around the last of the birch trees. “He nearly had my eye out just now with a rogue twig. Really Peter, you’re a menace on a hike.” James was grinning, his teeth white in the moonlight. He was hustling ahead of Remus, eager to greet his friend. 

“Come now, he’s not so bad.” Sirius said, letting his legs dangle down on the side of the mossy trunk below him, no longer noticing the cold at all. It was his way of an apology for his rudeness earlier. Peter wasn’t all that bad, really. 

James hopped up on the trunk next to Sirius, plopping down next to his friend. “I think you might’ve been all-time champion for hide and seek, mate. Even for you, this is a bit much.” 

Sirius huffed a laugh and leaned back, smiling, not yet ready to admit that he’d run away. That seeing his father at the castle had touched something deep inside him that he thought was safe and protected. Not ready to talk about how that felt. Like being buried alive. 

“How did you find me?” He said, an eyebrow raised at James, who was still watching him. 

“Wasn’t so hard,” Came Remus’s reply, who had just now caught up to the base of the log, leaning his shoulder against the moss, shadowed from the near full moon. “You left quite the trail at first, sashaying about, flatting plants and snapping saplings this way and that.” 

Peter dragged himself to the base of the tree and flopped into the long grass, panting heavily. “Remus is somehow an expert tracker. I have no idea where we are. We’ve hiked about an hour and I can’t feel my feet. I can’t believe muggles do this nonsense for fun. I must’ve twisted my ankle twice now.” 

The three of them laughed heartily at Peter, who was quite red faced and sweaty, after all. 

“I thought you were in the hospital wing, Remus? Poppy let you out, already?” Sirius asked, looking down at Remus’s tired face and slumped posture. 

Remus smiled slyly, the corners of his mouth just barely pulling up in a decidedly Remus kind of way. “Well, you see, these two rulebreakers may have snuck me out quite unexpectedly.” 

James, not to blamed for anything untoward, chimed in “well, you didn’t come back to the dorm after dinner, so we visited Remus and told him about it, and well he just demanded to come with to search for you, and good thing he did because I’ve never seen anyone so good at the seeking part, turns out. Me and Pete here would’ve been half way to Wales, dithering about a moor, without him.” 

“Told him about what?” Sirius asked, not wanting to hear them talk about how he’d had a bit of a meltdown for a family visit. 

“Oh, we forgot to tell you, yeah. Your dad had a huge row with Dumbledore and McGonagall. We may have followed him to that meeting, see.” James said, picking a long bit of grass and chewing it between his teeth, idly. He was sitting with his legs on either side of the log, facing Sirius now. 

“It was epic,” came Peter’s voice from his bed of grass below. “Your dad was going on about having you moved to Slytherin house and his family withdrawing support of the school and then transferring you to Beauxbatons or something. Said a lot of nasty things about Gryffindors. Hufflepuffs, too. We couldn’t hear everything from the base of the spiral stairs, but we heard enough.” 

Sirius groaned, his stomach squirming. 

“No, mate, McGonagall and Dumbledore were having none of it. Asked him to leave, they did. Said no to all his demands. Gods, he was furious when he left. Stormed out, he did.” James leaned back on the moss, the end of the grass still hanging from his lip. 

“It was amazing.” Came Peter’s voice from by their feet. “She said you were made for Gryffindor and you’re staying. Said there could be no question.” 

“Confirmed,” added Remus, who was nodding, “first Black in a century to make it out of Slytherin? McGonagall would commission a statue in your honour before she’d hand you over to Slughorn.” Sirius felt relief ghost across his skin as he said these words. Wind lifted the errant tendrils of hair that had fallen from his bun. 

“Whoah,” Came an awed whisper from James, who had shifted and sat up to look at the clearing behind the log, now frozen, his mouth half open. Then, in a very soft voice, “not too fast, but everyone look at what’s come into the clearing with us.”

Peter sat bolt upright, his voice a terrified squeak, “something dangerous? Should we run? Oh god, I’m the slowest!”    
  
“No- Pete shhh, be quiet. They’re not dangerous. Just come up and look over at the treeline. Don’t move too quickly.”    
  
Sirius had turned in the meantime, slowly checking over his shoulder at the line of elm and birch below the moon. There, in the spaces between trees, he could see something silver. Shimmering in the half light of the nearly full moon. Eventually, one slipped out into the open meadow, head held high and sniffing the air. 

“Unicorns.” Whispered Sirius, turning around slowly on the log to face the herd as they emerged. Fifteen or so adults, and several golden little foals on long, spindly legs. They moved slowly, bending to graze here and there on tufts of grass, picking at the new shoots that had come with the spring. 

“Wow.” Came Peter’s voice, who was standing on tip-toe just barely able to see over the fallen tree, Remus next to him, appearing far more trepidatious. 

The unicorns moved off to the north, a few breaking into a trot and nipping at the flanks of others, tossing their heads and swishing their long tails. 

“Come on,” Remus said eventually, breaking the spell of the moment, “let’s get back to the castle. It’s nearly two, and we’ve got transfiguration first thing tomorrow and I’ve got to get back to the hospital wing to fool Poppy or we’ll all have McGonagall to answer to.” 

______________

“So, Sirius. Are the rumours true? Did your dad come up here in his fancy stagecoach to promise you to Gertrude Burke, that Slytherin fourth year with the harelip?” The voice was high pitched and nasally, the accent thickly irish. 

Sirius looked up from his bacon and eggs, brain foggy on barely two hours of sleep, as they’d just managed to sneak up to Gryffindor tower by five am, having just barely dodged peeves and the rotten pomegranates with which he had been pelting portraits.

He dipped his spoon into a massive pile of mashed potatoes, slowly thinking over Mary McDonald’s inane question and the gossip that had been swirling about after the appearance of his father. He caught James’s eye, who had one eyebrow raised. Remus had also paused the very specific ritual of spreading blackcurrant jam across his toast. 

“Well, you see Mary,” Sirius said, looking over to her, seated between Lily and Dorcas. He flipped his spoon and flung a whole load of mashed potato at her face, which landed so satisfyingly across her eyes, nose and open mouth. “It appears I’m still an eligible bachelor, if you’re offering your hand, that is.” 

Dorcas and Lily shot daggers at Sirius between helping their shocked friend wipe the thick, buttery paste from her eyelashes and from the inside of her nose. “And a stagecoach is public transport. A Clarence is a private carriage, Mary dear.” 

Sirius stood and stretched, his untucked shirt riding high over his stomach. He nodded to James, Peter and Remus, who followed his lead and stood up as well. 

Minerva McGonagall, who had been walking past the Gryffindor table on her way to their transfiguration class, stopped in her tracks, staring between a now crying Mary and a relatively smug looking Sirius. 

“Five points from my own house, mister Black.” She said scathingly, marching off in the direction of her classroom. 

“Worth it.” Snickered Sirius at her tartan-clad back. He ignored the hisses and furious whispers that followed him from the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables. 

______________

Classes were easy for Sirius. The yew wand lent itself to powerful magic, and Sirius didn’t hesitate to guide it, directing it to his will. He had been introduced to basic spellwork of the type covered in their first year from such a young age, most of the tasks came naturally to him, and he excelled in his classes as a result. It was true what Remus and Peter had complained about, he and James, who’d known magic in a similar way from an early age, never had to study. Not really, anyway. 

_ Lumos _ and  _ Incendio _ .  _Tergeo_ and  _ Alohomora _ . It was second nature to Sirius, and it had been for a long time. He had started showing his magic very young. Four years old and he had levitated objects, blown bubbles from his ears and even, once, cast a shield charm. 

He had only done it once, however, as the protego charm had erupted between his mother, in a drunken fit of rage, and little Regulus, who had spilled bicorn blood all across the fern-green carpet in the drawing room, staining it deeply purple. He had saved him from that particular brutality, but he’d paid handsomely for it in his little brother’s stead. Now, sensing his reluctance, the yew wand had never granted him the spell again. 

As a result of his comfort with rather advanced magic for such a young age, Sirius was often bored. Bored in class with his feet up on the desk, bored in the afternoons as he wiled away time throwing stones at the giant squid. Bored in the library, where he shushed and then winked at Madam Pince, who had not found it nearly as funny as he did, no, not at all. 

Sirius was bored, and, as a result, often found himself in trouble. 

By the time final exams had rolled around, Sirius had racked up an impressive thirty six detentions for the year. Twelve in the first term. Twenty four in the second. Some detentions were for silly things: spelling Severus’s tongue to the roof of his mouth one afternoon in potions (a spell he’d often practiced on Kreacher), teaching a whole group of first years about how to perform unbreakable vows (Minnie had caught him mid-lecture, standing on a transfiguration desk, and he’d earned a week of detention for that one). 

Some detentions were for things he and James did together: stealing Davy Gudgeon’s bag of books during flying lessons and sneakily hiding them up on the spire at the top of north tower (it took him two days to find it and the help of a fifth year to get it down), replacing all of Lily Potter’s ink with the invisible stuff, then offering to borrow her their own pot (also invisible), and they both took particular pleasure in practicing the full body bind curse on Snape one afternoon (even having the audacity to call it a study session when Flitwick walked in to the classroom they were using). 

They’d gotten a month of scrubbing the portrait frames that lined the grand staircase for that one. No magic. But, he and James had made it fun in any case, chatting away to a whole manner of Hogwarts insiders. Turns out, Sirius had an excellent sense of how to wheedle gossip out of twelfth century monks and a whole manner for inviting tales of intrigue from ladies in waiting. 

It was from one small portrait of a young gentleman in poofy frills and satiny blooming trousers that Sirius had learned of the first of the secret passages they’d discover. It was a small tunnel of stone stairs that appeared in the alcove just beyond the painting when you tapped thrice on the third brick from the third windowpane, and he and James had followed it down a seemingly incessant spiral from the third floor all the way to the basement, where it appeared just beyond the painting of a bowl of fruit. 

That same painting had also told the two of them one night that he’d made the great mistake of traveling through the portraits to the empty fifth floor classrooms, only to catch sight of two students kissing rather ferociously. Two boys, no less, though he wouldn’t say exactly who. It had been quite the scandal. 

No matter how much trouble Sirius found himself in, he couldn’t find it within himself to cease his endless quest for the fun, the dangerous, the perilous. The thrill of adventure, the promise of something new. He couldn’t quite escape the feeling that he’d been wasting away his life until now. Until Hogwarts. And, the gnawing dread that he would be again, and soon. 

As May and June came to a close, Sirius found himself spending more and more time staring longingly out across the forest from their dormitory window, often with feet in his monogrammed slippers and a cup of steaming black coffee halfway to his lips. 

How he would miss it. How he wished he didn’t have to leave. 

He hadn’t gotten any letters from home since his father’s fateful visitation. Well, that wasn’t quite true, Regulus had written to him asking why he’d broken his stradivarius, but he’d crumpled up the letter and set fire to it at the breakfast table, causing quite the scene. Another detention for that one, but he really hadn’t minded helping professor Sprout prune the fanged geraniums, though it was normally fifth year’s work, and they did bite quite badly. 

He tried not to think about what he was going back to as the year came to a close. The exams didn’t worry him, no, not at all. Those would be fine. The summer season, though. That would be the real test. The endless balls and matchmaking luncheons. The charity auctions and galas. 

Would he be invited to any of it this year? His father had seemed pleased that he’d managed to surround himself with notable pureblood names, that was true, but it paled in comparison to his transgressions. What was a Black outside of Slytherin? Gods, and if they found out about Lupin! Or, Cerberus forbid, Lily, with whom he had been getting on so much better with since he’d taught her a neat way to remember the  _ finite _ charm and she had introduced him to the concept of t-shirts, though there still was quite a frostiness between them. 

He had been exclaiming to Remus about these new t-shirts, trying to explain how  _ soft _ and  _ stretchy _ they were, nothing like the chiffon blouses or Egyptian cotton house shirts he had been raised in, when Remus’s face split into a soft smile. “What, Remus, what’s so funny?” He demanded, irked and nettled at his audacity. 

“Yes, Sirius, I know what t-shirts are, I have a whole stack of them.” Remus huffed, seemingly endlessly amused with Sirius’s wonderment. 

“What? Where?” Sirius said, standing up and marching over to Remus’s trunk. “I’ve never seen you wear them!”

“That’s because I wear them under my jumpers— hey!” Sirius had begun to toss Remus’s clothes out of his trunk, pellmell. 

“Where are they!” Sirius shouted, throwing a seemingly endless supply of knitwear to the floor. 

“Godric and Morgana, Sirius.” Remus muttered, getting up and bumping Sirius out of the way with his shoulder. He rummaged in the pile of disarticulated clothing and pulled out a well worn, dark grey t-shirt. “Here.” 

And that had been the end of that. Sirius had worn t-shirts (though, admittedly, none of them his own, the majority of them Remus’s, some James, even a few of Lily’s that had been artfully nicked) since that day on. 

Their trunks packed and their exams written, the four of them had trooped out of the castle to the horseless carriages, then down to the train waiting below. They rode in a compartment together, quietly at first, sombre and reflective, but then Sirius got tired of the gloom and set off a filibuster wet start no flame firework, throwing it into a compartment full of Slytherin second years just before it exploded. 

The rest of the ride had been reminiscence about the year they had survived, the spells they had mastered. Peter worrying that he failed his transfiguration exam. Remus, quiet and thoughtful. James and Sirius playing several rounds of exploding snap, eating endless chocolate frogs. 

They hugged each other tightly on the train as it slid into the platform, James ruffling Sirius’s long hair. They jumped down with their trunks, and the four of them were instantly pulled separate ways in the milieu of students and parents and family and friends. James demanded that Sirius send an owl posthaste, yelling over the head of a tiny Hufflepuff first year before he ran off to his waving parents, who had been waiting to greet him, all smiles and warmth. Remus had his trunk scooped up straight away by a rather harried looking wizard with a ministry badge, hurrying him back toward the barrier, and Peter’s mother swooped in to plant giant pink lipstick smudges across his ever-reddening cheeks, before pulling him aside to meet what Sirius suspected was her new boyfriend, a rather young and eager looking wizard. 

Sirius waited several hours, sitting on the wooden slat benches beneath the platform sign, his feet dangling and his t-shirt swopped for a blouse, hair tied back in it’s usual velvet black bow. It was long after the last student and their family had left the platform that a loud crack sounded just beside him. 

Kreacher bowed low in greeting, as was custom, reaching out with no prelude, spindly fingers tight and oppressive on Sirius’s wrist, apparating him and his trunk back to Grimmauld Place. 


	4. The Kitchen at Night

_Summer, 1972_

“Is that what they really look like?” His mum asked him with smiling green eyes. Her face was pale and worn, tired and lined, more so than it had ever been. Treatment had been hard on her. Her head was wrapped in a pretty green and grey silk scarf, hiding from view the few sparse red and blond hairs left to her after her last few chemo treatments. 

Remus looked away from his mum’s face and back towards the great oil painting before them, studying it thoughtfully. 

“No,” he huffed. “No, that’s_ not _ what dragons look like. I don’t think van Haarlem was a wizard.”

She squeezed his hand and Remus continued to study the oiled brush strokes. Wonder as he did, why all great Roman origin stories were also tragedies, and why artists sought to capture such moments of suffering, instead of moments of kindness and reprieve. How the city Thames had been founded on the blood and bone of dragon teeth and sacrifice. 

Remus had spent the summer accompanying his mum to her treatments, his father scarce and distant, smelling of stale whiskey when he deigned to appear for meals. They didn’t fight, anymore, his parents. His dad didn’t seem to have any fight left in him. He reminded Remus of a phantom, or a ghost. But even the ghosts that haunted the halls and corridors of Hogwarts exhibited more life than his father seemed capable of. 

Remus and his mum would walk to the Moreton-on-Marsh station, in the early hours of the morning, down the crunching gravel walkways beside the road, past the tall poplars reaching for the sky, past skew postboxes and stray crows. They’d board the train together and trundle to London where they’d take a taxi to St. Thomas Hospital. 

The halls were dim in the flickering fluorescent lights of the oncology ward and Remus would sit, chuck clad foot jiggling beneath him, next to his mum, as the doctors trussed up an IV stand. His mum would repose in the same creaky leather armchair that sat beneath a narrow window, opposite the swinging doors to the hall. There were others in the room with them, a circle of old brown cracked leather recliners, their occupants in varying stages of treatment or recovery. Some of the faces were familiar, there every time, others not. Some never came back. Some came with family members, others, alone. 

The nurses were kind and smiled at Remus with doting titters and offers of sweets, and he’d perch beside his mum in an uncomfortable folding chair as her IV bag slowly emptied. Hope would pull a length of yarn from her bag and her needles would click methodically, slower than usual, as Remus moved his hand across the pages of his sketchbook. His black ballpoint pen gliding easily with his repetitive movements, both of them intent on their craft.

Sometimes he would read to his mum from his worn and cracked copies of _ The Fellowship of the Ring _ , or _ The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, _ or _ Things Fall Apart _. Stories he had read so many times, he nary needed to look at the page as he recited the passages like prayers. Sometimes when his mum’s hands were too tired to knit she took out her grandmother’s rosary and counted the beads with her eyes closed as Remus’s voice retold the familiar stories of his childhood. 

_“Perhaps down in his heart, Okonkwo was not a cruel man. But his whole life was dominated by fear, the fear of failure and of weakness._  
  
_It was deeper and more intimate than the fear of evil and capricious gods and of magic, the fear of the forest, and of the forces of nature, malevolent, red in tooth and claw._  
  
_Okonkwo’s fear was greater than these. It was not external but lay deep within himself.” _He'd recite, watching his mum's small smile and hearing her hum with empathy for Okonkwo and his strife. A life so different from their own, and yet plagued by the same haunted feelings. 

Depending on how his mum was feeling after her treatments they would take a taxi and do something fun together before climbing back on the train and heading home. Sometimes they would grab fish and chips, if she wasn’t too nauseous, or if the smell of fried food didn’t make her turn green. Some of the time they would people watch. Giving each nameless face a backstory, a happy ending. 

Sometimes they’d go to his mum’s favourite record shop so she could browse the rows and rows of music, picking a few here and there to add to her collection. He would tap his thumb on his jaw in time with the beat that filled the little record shop as he looked at the posters for sale of The Doors, Led Zeppelin, and The Beetles. His mum loved American tunes and anything she could sing loudly to. His favourite of the summer, so far, had been American Pie, which he and his mum hadn’t stopped singing to each other. Whenever they cleaned together or found themselves in the kitchen, his mum would drop the needle down on the record and they’d dance as they made dinner or twirled around each other with their brooms in hand, just to forget for a moment that things were changing fast. 

One time they went to the Cambridge Theatre and saw _ Midsummer’s Nights Dream _ — hearing Sirius’s voice in his head the whole time, “As magic as they come!” He had shouted at Remus, who had been shocked to hear Shakespeare was a wizard, “His plays are full of references! Did you even read _ The Tempest _? How has your father not told you this?”

Another afternoon they went to the British Museum and Remus delighted in the Assyrian carvings and Greek burnished pottery, all depicting great battles and greater tragedies. 

Today, however, his mum, tired and worn, nauseous and pale though she was, seemed determined to make it to the National Gallery. They had taken a taxi from the hospital, her legs seeming heavier than usual, her steps slower, her breath more laboured. She had clutched Remus’s hand as he helped her climb the stairs and they wandered slowly through the nearly empty rooms, commenting as they went on the scenes trapped in the paint. 

Entering the room of dutch painters, his mum’s stamina had finally given out. She gratefully lowered herself onto a leather studded bench, healthier and more austere than the cracked faded armchairs at the hospital. These ones were well oiled, well cared for, recliners meant for the observers to sit and contemplate for long moments. 

They sat before _ Two Followers of Cadmus devoured by a Dragon _ , Remus’s eyes tracing the wounds left by sharp teeth, his own fingers idly tracing his most recent acquisitions along his brow. He thought maybe the dragon could have been a Rill Shortsnout, judging by the pictures he’d seen in _ Dragon Identification and Survival Strategies _, but he couldn’t be sure. This dragon reminded him of something warmblooded, less reptilian. Its snout and teeth, furled lip and cold eyes, so reminiscent of the howls in the night, of things he didn’t like to remember. 

His mum sighed, reaching out to touch Remus’s hair, her green eyes sad and tired. “Next week we’ll come back here. There’s too much to see for one visit.”

But the next week came and went, and they didn’t go back. His mum took a turn for the worse two weeks before he was set to go back to school. His dad had used all the gold he could muster, finally coming out of his ghostly fog, spurred into action by Hope’s rapidly declining health, to hire a private wizarding nurse. 

“I’ve never cared for a muggle before,” Nurse Patrice tried to explain to Lyall in the kitchen where he leaned against the counter besides Hope’s ashtray full of filters that no one had bothered to toss, “I don’t know what good I can do for her.”

“Just— I just want her to be comfortable. The muggle doctors— they say she’s dying— they don’t know how to heal this and they say she’s dying— I can’t let her die in that hospital.” He said, his voice thick and constrained. 

“I’ll see what I can do for you,” reassured Patrice. Remus walked into the kitchen as the nurse was walking out, heading to his mum where she lay knitting in her bed. 

“Hey bud,” his dad said, trying not to sound so defeated. “I got your things from Diagon Alley this morning, there in the sitting room my your mum’s wheel. Are you ready for term to start?”

“I want to stay with mum.” He said, ignoring what his dad said, the twisting ache in his gut gnawing at him. He had received endless letters from James and Peter, even one from Sirius, exclaiming how excited they all were for year to start. The thought of not seeing them felt like a physical wound, but the thought of leaving his mum hurt just as much. 

“You have to go to school, Remus, we’re lucky Dumbledore bent the rules for you.” His dad said rubbing his eyes, tired of the same conversation. 

“If she’s— if—” he couldn’t say _ dying _, “if she’s not getting better, I don’t want to leave, I want to—”

“No, Remus, don’t argue. You’re going to school. We don’t know how long— we don’t know when—” Lyall paused, trying to push out the words that seem to be caught in his throat. “You’ll be the first to know if you’re needed. Why don’t you go check on your mum? I have to run to the office.”

Remus nodded stiffly, watching his dad grab his grey trilby hat and black ministry robes from the back of the dining chair and stride out of the room. 

He took a moment, opening and closing his fists, wrestling down the anger and disappointment he felt before taking a deep breath. He turned to follow his mum’s voice, to where she chatted amicably with the nurse. The phone had been moved from the wall in the kitchen, an empty yellow shape left behind on the wallpaper where it used to hang, to where it was now perched on the bedside table beside his mum’s knitting things. Easier for Hope to call his gran and Ethel. 

“That’s not one of Lyall’s remedies, is it?” His mum was asking with a look of great suspicion on her face as the nurse was pouring a healthy measure of rose scented liquid. 

“I’m not sure what remedies your husband has been giving you, my dear, but I only use Healer approved potions.” She assured with a concerned crease of her brow.

“Well, that’s a relief.” His mum sighed, accepting the small goblet and taking a tentative sip. Seeming to decide that it was acceptable, she drank the rest and nestled further back into her mound of pillows, looking tired and ready to sleep. 

Remus stood in the doorway and watched the nurse as she cast a complex and beautiful matrix of spellwork above his mum’s resting form. She gazed at it with a childlike wonder and a sleepy smile. “Lyall used to show me all kinds of magic when we were younger. Doesn’t have much time for it anymore though.” She trailed off sadly, her eyes heavy lidded. The nurse cancelled the spell and tittered. 

“Get some rest, now, I’ll be back in the morning.” Hope closed her eyes with a sigh and Remus stood in the doorway for a long, long time. 

______________

Lyall Lupin handed his son a wad of crumpled cash and assorted coins on his way out the door, swollen knuckles depositing the waded paper into the small and scarred hand. He hurriedly balanced a cap on his balding head, shaking fingers trying to close a wrinkled button down as he strode away, ministry robes haphazardly strewn across his arm. 

“The train leaves at 11, make sure you get to the station on time— and don’t forget your potion, it’s still in the kitchen.”

Remus watched his dad wipe a thin layer of sweat off his brow with a stained handkerchief as he turned to regard his son with bloodshot eyes and a worried grimace. 

“Don’t worry, dad. See you at Christmas.” He said softly, his hands stuffing the wad of muggle into one pockets, and the coins of wizarding gold into the other of his faded grey trousers. The sleeves of his maroon and white jumper rolled up to his elbows in the heat of day and the stale air of the house. He tried to inject a sense of normality in his voice, despite the grief that hung heavy above their heads. 

Lyall nodded with a twitch of his jaw and a gruff “Bye, then,” before turning on the spot and apparating from the front stoop. 

When Remus entered his mum’s room, she was sitting up in bed, a fat stack of knitwear balancing precariously next to her, the phone jammed between her shoulder and ear as she lit a cigarette. 

“—absolutely, I know. The nurse is fantastic, I tell you. I feel right as rain, my legs are just tired. But Lyall isn’t taking it well, you know. Yeah. I know.” She was saying, not having seen Remus come to lean against the door frame. 

“I got a— a— a call—” Remus remembered the small owl from the day before that had flown into his mum’s bedroom depositing a letter from Tom at the Leaky Cauldron, “from one of his friends, you know, he’s been at the pub near every night this summer— had to send Remus to get him.”

The hurried script told Hope that his dad needed his tab paid and for someone to take him home. His mum had called for Remus, asked him what to do. Hope didn’t have any galleons or wizarding money, no floo to fetch her drunk husband from the wizarding world, no ability to apparate. She was sick and bedridden, no magic folk to call for help, no one but Remus. 

“I’ll go get him.” He had said defeated and determined. Upset that his mum had to worry about anything. He knew where the entrance to Diagon Alley was though his father had taken him precious few times in his childhood. Even with being a Hogwarts student, his dad did all of Remus’s school shopping for him, not wanting to expose Remus or himself to anyone who knew the truth of his condition. Perhaps not wanting his worlds to collide. 

His mum’s eyes had filled with tears and she touched his face with cold fingers. 

Remus had taken the train to London, as he had dozens of times with his mum. Walked to the Leaky Cauldron where his dad was sleeping in a corner booth, disheveled and pitiful. 

A worried Tom had asked Remus what was happening, why Lyall was spending so many evenings away from home. “Mum’s sick. Dying, actually,” he had told him, with a hollow voice. “Muggle medicine can’t help, and St. Mungo’s won’t.”

Tom waived off Lyall’s tab, not accepting any of Remus’s muggle money or few galleons. 

“Take him home to your mother.” He said sadly, casting a wordless _ enervate _ at his father before pushing a vial of Teetotalers Clearheaded Sober-Up Tonic towards him. Lyall took it, with hazy eyes and uncoordinated fingers, taking an eternity to guide the potion to his mouth. 

After shuddering violently, the potion cleared his system, shifting his visage from pale to green and then to deep red as he was overcome with roiling nausea. 

“Take your kid home, Lyall.” Tom said in a tired and exasperated tone. “You’ll not be getting pints from here, anymore.”

Lyall shook his head as if clearly away the cobwebs and residual double vision. He blinked rapidly a few times before turning a startled gaze on his young son. He looked sheepish and embarrassed, caught out and cornered. Like his two very separate worlds had come crashing together when Remus Lupin walked into the Leaky Cauldron. He apparated them home. Remus stumbled when his feet hit the sparse lawn behind the line of poplars, having travelled by magic so few times in his life.

Lyall had deposited himself on the couch immediately upon entering the house, and nothing more was said about it. 

“Ethel— I know, you don’t need to tell me, but Lyall doesn’t believe in that kind of stuff, he wasn’t raised like that— hold on, Ethel.” She startled, seeing Remus standing there. “I gotta go, call you back.” She said, before putting the receiver down. 

Remus walked into the room and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, next to the tower stack of knitwear and he eyed it with a curious gaze. 

“I made you some things— for the new school year.” She said, with an odd lilt to her voice, her hands restlessly smoothing the fabric stack. 

Remus raised an eyebrow at her. She normally made him one or two sweaters every year, a few pairs of socks, sure, a hat or two, maybe a scarf— but this was an unprecedented pile of clothing. 

“You’ve been busy.” Remus said, with a small smirk, picking up the top most sweater and unfolding it. 

“I’ve had a lot of free time.” She said with a careful smile. 

It was pale green and dark blue with a fair isle collar. It was lovely, yes, but it was much too big for Remus. He looked at his mum over the sweater as he held it out in front of him. 

“Its too big, mum,” he said, “isn’t this for dad?”

Her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head, still trying to smile as she touched his hair. “No, baby, it’s for you. I’m sure you’ll grow into it.”

Remus sat there, with the too big sweater in his hands, looking at the stack of jumpers, vests, and socks— things Hope Lupin wanted to make for her son as he grew, but knew she wouldn’t be around to make as the years wore on. 

“Oh,” was all Remus could think to say.

“Baby, be a gem and put the record on? Pick whatever you like.” She asked, wiping tears from her eyes.

He set the Abbey Road album on the record player and dropped the needle onto the vynl with decided care. Back in the room, he helped his mum out of bed for one last dance before he had to catch his train to school.

______________

“Peter, your mouth-breathing is so loud, I’m surprised Peeves hasn’t found us yet.” Sirius whispered as they crouched and shuffled along an empty corridor, between slips of moon light cast by the tall mullein windows on the seventh floor. 

“I have nasal congestion!” Peter said in quiet indignation, sniffing loudly.

“If we get detention, I’m murdering all of you.” Remus muttered, pressing closer to James’s back to ensure they were all covered within the silky cloak. 

“It’s gotta be around here somewhere,” James said to himself, not listening to the bickering behind him. 

The four of them had been jubilantly reunited on the platform to school amid the chaos of the crowd bustling about. Remus had pulled his trunk with a red and sweaty face all the way from home, in a taxi, on a train, into another taxi, and then to King’s Cross. 

Peter’s mum had dropped him off on the street before the station with a swift kiss and a smear of bright red lipstick on his cheek. Her bright blond curls tumbling down her shoulders as she waved him off with a “cheers, darling!” before running off to meet a well dressed man in a suit on the corner. She didn’t look back as Peter dragged his trunk to where Remus stood waiting for him. 

Sirius was already on the platform when they pushed through the barrier, pulling the velvet bow from his hair and tearing his blouse in his haste to remove it from over the grey t-shirt he had stolen from Remus at the end of the last term. James was being hugged and kissed repeatedly by his parents when they found him in the crowd as they searched for an empty compartment. The Potters had been overjoyed to meet James’s friends. They hugged and kissed each of them in turn, much to James’s horror and embarrassment. “Mum! You can’t just _ kiss _ someone else’s children!” He had yelled. 

“Oh, but they’re your friends! And you talk about them so much! So pleased to meet all of you, really.” She had said, genuinely pleased, her focus so affection so pure. She had dazzling grey eyes and sleek black hair in a long plait down her back. James had her smile, but he had his dad’s artfully windswept air and large hazel eyes. Their gazes had lingered with warm smiles on each of them in turn as if trying to memorise something. 

“I’m sure we’ll meet again, boys.” Mr. Potter had said with a wink. “Why don’t you go find yourself a compartment.”

And with that, they left the Potters, James red faced and exasperated. 

Sirius had seemed oddly shaken by the experience of meeting James’s parents, clearly not knowing how to respond to strange adults bestowing him with many praises and such informal greetings as hugs. Remus felt similarly, as his family had been so isolated growing up, he had few intimate interactions with other adults in his life. 

Sirius had declared suddenly that since September 1 landed on a Friday, that it was an unencumbered weekend for getting up to no good. 

“What would _ you _ know about getting up to no good, Black?” he said from where he stood waiting for Lily as she hugged her parents' goodbye. 

“A damn sight more than you, I’d say.” Sirius shot back, dropping the end of his trunk and facing him. 

Severus looked him up and down, sizing him up. “Bet you wouldn’t have the guts for a wizard’s duel.”

“Been duelling since I could stand, you greasy git,” Sirius countered, his chest puffed up, stepping forward. Lily appeared at Severus’s side with a furrowed brow. “Who's your second?”

“I am.” Lily said. Severus shot her a startled glance, clearly not having anticipated her involvement.

“Well, then, I’m Sirius’s.” James piped up, stepping forward. Lily glowered. Remus ran a scarred hand over his face, exasperated. Couldn’t get they get through their first day back without this nonsense?

“Seventh floor, the duelling room.” Snape said with his arms folded, looking overly pleased. 

“There is no duelling room on the seventh floor.” Peter said, clearly confused with a furrowed brow. 

“Shows how much _ you _ know.” Severus said as he turned away. “Midnight, duelling room. Unless you’re a coward.” 

Lily whispered waspishly as she pulled Severus down the platform, “Must you?”

Remus had to grab Sirius’s shoulder to stop him from running after Severus, “Why do you let him bother you?” Sirius had shot him a challenging look, the yew wand spinning between his fingers, of mingled provocation and reproach. 

That’s what led them to wandering around the seventh floor at near midnight on their first day back at school, cramped and hunched under the cloak. 

“We’ve been wandering around forever, there’s nothing here.” Peter griped, sniffling loudly again. “I told you he was lying.” 

“If we don’t show up, then he’ll think we’re cowards and I’ll never be able to live with myself.” Sirius said, his voice filled with righteous anger. “I’m going to make him eat slugs, then vomit them up and eat them again.”

“There’s no special duelling room on the seventh floor, Sirius, I tried to tell you, he was making it up. He’s probably laughing his head off in the Slytherin common room, or worse, he’s told a teacher and—”

“_ Shhh! _” James bit out. Footsteps were echoing off the walls and moving swiftly towards them.

Sirius jostled them trying to indicate that they should shuffle towards the wall to get out of the middle of the corridor. Peter shook his head with panicked eyes. He had never been capable of silent sneaking, and clearly thought they ought to risk it where they were. 

All three of them rolled their eyes and silently grabbed Peter, hoisting him off the ground beneath the cloak. They all shimmied sideways, Peter twisting in their grasp. Into the deep shadow of an alcove between two windows, they sank, as the steps approached, quick and purposeful. The voices accompanying them made them all freeze in fear.

“My dear Minerva, I understand your worries and share them with you. I too believe the boy— all three of them, actually— need more help and supervision—” came the low voice of the headmaster. 

“Then why aren’t we doing more? Can’t we do more? All four of them are giving me grey hairs, Albus, and Poppy is being run ragged every full moon.” Minerva was saying with a tight frown as they approached the huddled boys under the invisibility cloak. Remus’s heart was pounding in his chest and he was suddenly drenched in sweat.

“I do believe they may have set the record for most detentions in a year—” Dumbledore chuckled as they passed their hiding place. 

“It’s no laughing matter, Albus, I think we need to revisit the idea of keeping the school open over the summer.”

“I thought they were giving you grey hairs, Minerva? Don’t you want some respite?” He asked, curiously, their voices fading. 

“No, I want them to have stability and safety.” She declared as they were rounding the corner out of sight. Her voice trailing off. “I spoke with Tom. Both Lyall _ and _ Pearl have been at the Leaky nearly all summer, and, well, _ you _ remember how pleasant Orion was—”

They didn’t hear the rest of her thoughts, as her voice became dimmer and harder to hear through the echoing expanse of the stone halls. It was a long moment before Sirius finally spoke. 

“I think you’re right, Pete, I don’t think Severus really meant to duel us. He was trying to get us sent to detention, that little half-blood snitch.” 

James snorted but Remus still hadn’t recovered from the shock of almost overhearing McGonagall talking about the full moon. 

“I’m standing right here, you know.” He reprimanded with a thin voice.

“Oh—” Sirius said after a moment, his face contorting in a grimace, seeming to realise what he had said. “Sorry, mate, I didn’t think— I— I mean Snivellus—”

“It’s fine.” Remus waved him off. 

“We’ll get him back, don’t you worry.” James said, sounding determined and consoling, breaking the moment. 

“Can we sneak to the kitchens? I’m dying for a scone.” Peter chimed in, starting to pull away from the wall. 

“Yeah.” Sirius answered, tugging on Remus’s overlarge sweater. “And we can decide what retribution to reign down on that slime ball for lying about a duelling room on the seventh floor. What utter rubbish.”

And off they went, all soundly ignoring what they may or may not have overheard in the dark of the castle.

When they finally climbed back in through the portrait hole at near two in the morning, it was to see Lily sitting smugly in an armchair by the fire. Her hands were steepled in front of her face as if she were waiting for them. Her pink fluffy robe and tartan pyjama bottoms, doing little to detract from the foreboding scene. 

“Hello, boys.” She said with a smirk. 

“Evans.” James said with a slight nodded, looking wary. 

“I see Severus curled like a gnarl at the thought of a fair fight.” Sirius bit out, crossing his arms in indignation. 

“Oh, no, Severus did no such thing. I told him if he left his common room tonight I’d tell McGonagall and Slughorn.”

“Must be spending too much time with the Slytherins if you’re so quick to rat out a friend.” Peter said with his sniffling wheeze. 

Sirius and James grunted in agreement. Remus narrowed his eyes.

“No, you see, I have a different agenda.” She continued. 

“Could you get on with it? I’m tired and you’re boring.” Sirius barked. 

Lily raised her eyebrows. “Leave Severus alone, or I’ll tell McGonagall how you’ve been sneaking about all the time.”

They all stood very still, watching her. 

“We don’t sneak out.” Peter lied lamely, and Lily gave him a withering look that didn’t need words. 

“Snape starts it half the time, anyways!” James nearly shouted. 

“You’re no better!” She retorted. “You’re always goading him, four on one. How is that fair?”

“I’m not making deals with Slytherins!” Sirius said, his face hard. 

“I’m a _ Gryffindor _—” Lily said, getting to her feet. 

“The sorting hat made a mistake.” Sirius said, meanly. 

“With you? I’d believe it.” Lily sniped with narrowed eyes, taking a determined step forward. Fearless on her own in the face of confrontation, of being outnumbered. 

Sirius moved forward to meet her challenge, bristling with indignation, but Remus and James grabbed his arms.

Remus could smell the tension. Could hear Sirius’s rage building. Could feel James’s pulse staccato next to him. Even Peter stopped mouth breathing.

“I protect my own, _ that’s _ being a Gryffindor.” Lily said with venom and righteousness. “It shouldn’t matter that he’s Slytherin. You should know better.”

“You don’t know how we’ve been sneaking around, you’re bluffing.” Remus deflected, also bluffing. 

“Suit yourself.” She said, turning towards the stairs. “Leave him alone, or I’m busting you.”

And with that, she disappeared up the stairs to the girl’s dormitory. 

______________

The torches burned low and the light beyond the tall, mullioned windows was fading fast, casting the library in an ethereal glow of the gathering autumn. The soft scratch of quills on parchment permeated the air and Madam Pince’s creaky book cart moved slowly up and down the wooden floors as she sent books flying to their rightful home. 

Remus and Sirius sat in a far back corner of the library, hungry eyes leafing through a rather giant leather tome in search for a good research topic for History of Magic. James and Peter had gotten detention for trying to spell Lily’s hair green during transfiguration. McGonagall had been furious. 

_ Giant Beasts and Megafauna of the Ancient World _ by Bijou Thimble was a fascinating find. Its embossed leather binding groaned loudly under the weight of its many thick pages. It had taken both of them to pull the giant book down off the shelf, as it stood near half Remus’s height and weighed about as much, and carry it to the small desk in the back of the experimental charms section. 

“Whoa, I didn’t know chimaeras were real.” Remus intoned quietly, his eyes scanning the drawing of a fire breathing lion with a goat’s body and dragon’s end sleeping in a windswept cave by the sea, guarding the charred remains of its last kill. 

“Didn’t you?” Sirius asked. “Your dad’s a wizard, isn’t he? Didn’t he ever tell you stories of the magical world?”

Remus shrugged. “Mum’s a muggle, though. She’s the one who told me stories.”

Sirius flipped the page to reveal the drawing of an ape-like humanoid, standing eight feet tall and covered in shaggy brown hair beside a towering oak. 

“Bigfoot’s real too?” Remus nearly shouted, to which Sirius shushed him, giggling. 

“Most of them died out.” Sirius said in his fact-relaying voice. “Only a few colonies left around the world. See? And we don’t call them Bigfoot, that sounds inane. They’re Gargan Tuans, to us.”

_ Revered for their divinatory skills, Gargan Tuan were hunted to near extinction around the world. Found in forested mountains terrain, they live in caves and were often idolised as oracles. Their friendly and trusting nature, kind and empathetic demeanour to human plight, made them all too easy to hunt and kill. Fur, appendages, teeth, and bone were used in early forms of witchcraft and even by muggles in rudimentary attempts at magic. Muggles have been known to still seek their lairs to this day. Gargan Tuans are a protected magical race under the international code of— _

Remus flipped the page to follow the words, seeing as he did more illustrations of, as the wizarding world called them, Gargan Tuan, and their varying appearances and locations where they were still occasionally sighted around the world. Thick white fur from the Himalayas, wispy grey hair from central Africa, fluffy black coating from South East Asia— 

He felt a sense of… loss, staring down at a magical creature he had grown up believing was born of muggle imagination. What Sirius had said, stung something deep within him. Why hadn’t his dad told him these things about the magical world? Why hadn’t he shared these facts and stories, mythologies and knowledge?

They flipped page after page of new and ever-fascinating magical beings; Luscas in the Caribbean, Scylla in Greece, Amoroks of Northern Canada, Mokele-mbembe in the Congo River basin, the Behemoths of Babylon, all magnificent in size, astonishing in their magical powers, most extinct, others teetering on the verge. 

Sirius pulled back the page as they speculated wildly about the rumours of the dream-eating Baku from Japan, the bear that roamed the ancient bamboo forests besides the thestrals, who were equally as strange and unsettling, bones as sharp as their teeth. 

The illustration on the next page caught Remus’s eye. _ Architeuthis Demiurge _ was scripted over an intricate illustration of a rather spectacularly massive squid. He shushed Sirius’s waning argument and read;

_ — is an ancient form of magical cephalopod, not to be confused with Architeuthis Kraken. A pillar species of the magical ecosystem of the past, it has been theorised that the Demiurge can influence the fundamental magic of where it dwells. Ancient wizards speculated that they were the architects of magic and that large bodies of water in which they lived gave life and magic to the inhabitants around it. It has been thought that swimming with the Demiurge can heal magical ailments and promote strength and longevity of life— _

_ —overfished through the centuries, hunted for their purported abilities, and the effects of global climate change, there are thought to be only two Demiurge left in existence. One can be found in Lake Baikal, Russia, the other in the Hogwarts Lake, Scotland. No one seems to know how long they live for, or how they breed, but efforts have been made to reunite the two remaining giant squids. The Russian Magical Confederacy has, over the years, unfortunately, refused to cooperate— _

“The Giant squid is magical, too?!” Remus whispered a shrill, disbelieving, angry sound. Sirius sniggered heartily, shushing him further. 

“Mate, how do you not know this?” He asked, scanning the page with an air of near boredom.

“No one told me!” 

“Were you raised _ entirely _ muggle?” Sirius asked, his voice sounding confused. 

“Basically,” Remus shrugged. “Dad never talked much about it when I was growing up. He didn’t do a lot of magic at home. Didn’t think I’d be a wizard.”

“He thought you’d be a squib?”

“I don’t know what he thought.” Remus lied, pulling his sleeve down further to pointlessly cover the scars on his hands. “Muggleborns and half-bloods aren’t treated the same. Mum was worried about me coming to school. Dad...” but he trailed off, unsure how to explain without giving himself away. 

Sirius was quiet for a long while and Remus sighed, feeling nettled and stupid. 

“Let’s go swimming with the giant squid.” Sirius said, voice low and mischievous.

“I— What?”

“Not now, but one day— promise me, before we graduate we’ll go swimming with the giant squid. It says right here they’re gentle and have healing powers, can’t be all that dangerous, can they?” He pointed excitedly at the massive page.

Remus turned towards Sirius, the challenging glint in his eyes. 

“Shouldn’t you be asking James?” Remus deflected. 

He wiggled his eyebrows. “James doesn’t need convincing.”

Remus rolled his eyes and flipped another page, knowing swimming with the giant squid was too wild, even for Sirius. “Sure, Master Black, I’ll go swimming with you and the giant squid before we graduate.”

“Perfect.” Sirius beamed, exerting a great effort to close the book before them with a sonorous _ thud _. “Let’s go see if James and Peter are done scrubbing the transfiguration room. I bet Lily wishes she never interfered.”

Remus huffed, exasperated as he was with the rivalry between them and Lily and Severus. They had kept their word and hadn’t so much as looked at Severus since Lily had threatened them, and, by some grace of the unknown, Severus had been equally quiet in return, though he watched them with shrewd eyes. But, now, the transgression unable to go unpunished, James and Sirius had made it their life mission to torture Lily for having the audacity to stand between them and their misdeeds. 

Lily and Sirius had even been starting to get on at the end of last term. There had been hope. A tentative alliance. It had not lasted the droning summer months and, sure enough, they had restarted animosities at first blush of reunion.

Remus hated the feud, but often accompanied his friends in their endeavours in any case, sighing disapprovingly the whole while, wanting to make sure no one actually got hurt. But, what they hadn’t anticipated was how unyielding Lily would be, how unafraid of them. She gave as good as she got, spelling Peter to grow and abnormally large nose after he tried to slip her a tripping jinx in the hall, sending him to Madam Pomfrey. Or, when she give James antlers that lasted for three days after he made sulphurous gas spill out of her ears. Or when she spelled Sirius’s school uniform to be green velvet during charms class, a memory that Remus tried hard not to laugh at, out of loyalty, of course. Sirius had been inconsolable with rage. 

The war of attrition was going strong and neither party seemed to be willing to back down. “I say we let loose a niffler in the girls dormitory. You think Hagrid has any?” Sirius asked, his face gleeful at the thought. 

“I’m not helping you get a niffler, Sirius.” He said, resigned to his fate, trying hard to swim upstream. 

“Mister Lupin, what kind of Gryffindor wouldn’t help his mate steal a niffler in an act of distributive justice?” Sirius asked in real indignation. Remus sighed as they ducked a flying book heading towards its home on a high shelf, directed by the shrewd eyes and magic of Madam Pince. 

“We’ll have to go down there when Hagrid is doing his gamekeeper duties.” He groaned, surrendering to the tide. 

Sirius’s smile was victorious and beatific. “Let’s stop by the kitchens, you hardly ate dinner.”

______________

September’s full moon came, and September's full moon went. The dust settled in the dim dawn light filtering between slats and boarded up windows of the Shrieking Shack and the birds beyond heralded in the morning. Remus, naked and cold on the floor of the large sitting room, an old and dilapidated grand piano beside him, awoke for the first time in his life, covered in blood that was not his own_ . _

At first, his hands had flown over his body, touching everywhere, noticing as he did the drying blood and exudate covering his naked skin and the ground beneath him, searching for a wound that would explain this torrential flood. Finding nothing but a few stinging scratches on his face, just below his eye, and along the side of his neck, he became aware of the taste in his mouth; metallic and thick. Congealed. He pulled himself up, his bones aching. 

He had reached a shaking hand to his lips, towards something was making his teeth feel too tightly packed in his mouth, like an errant popcorn kernel, but soft and coppery. His fingers picked between two bottom teeth, pulling out a sinewy clump of black fur, nearly heaving at the sensation of it coming away from his mouth. 

His skin broke out in goose flesh as he surveyed his surroundings, breathing hard, trying to piece together why there was so much blood. _ What had he done? _ He shivered against the cold of the morning, his eyes taking in the piano looming large in his vision, its keys jangled and haphazard where they lay, the velvet stood before it knocked over and half shredded. On the other side of the room were discarded and broken bits of furniture, a tattered sofa, a flipped-over and splintered coffee table, evidence of his transformation scattered about the room. 

The smell of metal was overwhelming, now, and he shuddered violently. The streaks and clots covering his chest were slowly drying, making his skin sticky and crusty. His thighs twinged, sore from the night’s events, and his fingernails hurt in their tender nail beds, caked with evidence of his wicked nature. He was racked with nausea, cold and undulating and his skin broke out in perspiration. How had anything manage to get in? What had he killed?

_ Killed. _

Remus closed his eyes against the spinning of his head and the saliva pooling in his mouth, threatening upheaval, seeming to pool around the taste of blood, threatening to drown him. Leaning forward, he felt the bile rising in his throat, helpless against the tide. He spat lamely onto the floor in front of him, trying to stave off the waves of relentless revulsion. Flashes from the night slowly filtered into his brain as he braced himself against the rough grain of the old oak flooring.

He had transformed, as he had innumerable times in his young life. But, last night the wolf had immediately latched onto something, a smell he couldn’t ignore, couldn’t fight. He had to find it. It pulled him forward, unstoppable as the transformations themselves. Scabbling, scratching, sniffing. Bits and pieces of memories, disjointed and confused as they always were, nonlinear and broken, filtering through his foggy human brain as the smell of iron and viscera surrounded him. His mind supplied the memory, the single hazy image of a cornered and scared, hissing and spitting black cat hiding beneath the chaise lounge. 

Remus heaved and emptied his stomach onto the already stained and scuffed floorboards. Tears and snot streamed freely out of his face as he shook, remembering in muddled and disconnected flashes; The thrill of the hunt, a _ real _ hunt. The chasing. The adrenaline. The purpose and unbridled joy. The pungent aroma of fear emanating from his quarry, filling his nostrils and spurring him onward. That fear. It had felt decadent. Intoxicating. Delicious. 

The terrified yowling shrieks and hissing as he had chased the black cat, his claws leaving long gashes in the wooden planks beneath him as he scrambled for purchase, pulling himself ever faster and faster through the house. All of his focus tunnelling with pinpoint precision, dedicated to this one thing, this one task, this one exquisite expression of inner brutality and animal instinct. 

Upturning furniture and climbing over crashing bookshelves in his haste, in his _ need _, the cat had continued to shriek it’s terrified mewls into the deadly silent house as the wolf closed in— searching desperately for reprieve, for safety, for escape. 

The taste of panic in the air was thick and sweet as exhaustion slowly overtook the poor cat’s feral and emaciated body. The promise of reward, when the wolf had finally cornered the feline, hissing and spitting in a corner, its hair on end, claws drawn, was too strong to resist. The sting of sharp little nails in his face and of small teeth puncturing his skin as the black cat with yellow eyes had tried desperately, in vain, to fight off the werewolf. 

The screaming. The _ screaming _that followed, rang in the air, cold and clear and frenzied. The horrid and satisfying crunching of its tiny slender bones in his massive jaws as the defiant and forlorn body finally went limp in his mouth. 

His breath heaving, the house, silent, but for the creaking eves settling in the chill night air. 

How he had eaten it. It’s body warm and limp against his teeth, soft and yielding. It’s skin tearing open easily to reveal its hidden parts, not meant to be seen, let alone enjoyed. The squelching flesh shredding without effort beneath his teeth as he pulled apart the sinewy strands, ripping tendons, and disarticulated bones. 

Remus heaved again at the visceral memory of bone on teeth, at the echoing of the crunching in his skull, the ground beneath him smeared in remnants of skin and hair, of macerated flesh and cartilage. Unidentifiable gore, deconstructed in his savagery. 

He was lost in his desperate purging. So lost in the echoing of his own mind, of the yolwing terror of the nameless cat, he hadn’t heard Madam Pomfrey enter the shrieking shack through the tunnel in the hall. Nor had he heard her shoes click across the echoing floor, across to where Remus lay, shame faced and stricken. 

He didn’t know how it happened, other than the mess before him was suddenly gone and he was wrapped in a soft blanket. Being shushed and consoled, being mothered. He had clung to her in his weakness and terror, unable to stop the heaving any time the terrified cat swam across his vision again. He sobbed like he hadn’t since his first transformation, since he’d been attacked in the night by Greyback. 

Eventually his guttural cries and retching subsided into shuddering breaths and stilted sniffling, his eyes wide, stunned. Shocked. By his own disgusting brutality. Barbarity. 

Madam Pomfrey summoned his things, left him to dress, and they walked back to the castle in silence. She kept him the rest of that day, Sunday, not allowing visitors despite their insistence. He could hear his friends griping and arguing with her, their voices echoing around the hall. But, he was grateful for the silence when she shut the door in their faces, unable to look anyone in the eye. Fearing the new cuts and scratches on his face would tell them all they needed to know. 

He refused to let Madam Pomfrey heal the wounds the cat had left, much to her confusion and horror. Refused his normal post-transformation potions. This pain, these scars, he felt he deserved. The discomfort of the reminders. The questioning stares. The raised eyebrows and speculations. He deserved it all because he was a monster and he had killed a poor and helpless animal. Someone’s pet, perhaps. Something worth love, unlike himself.

Remus refused to accept anything but dry toast and mint tea, much to Madam Pomfrey’s continued disapproval and clear distress. After much chivvying and threats, he had finally lifted the dry and brittle toast to his mouth with a slight tremor in his hand, the mint tea sitting heavy and sloshing in his stomach. As his teeth crunched down on the dry bread, he froze, disgust and horror rising in him, engulfing him as the echoing sound of wet cracking, and the feel of snapping bones against his teeth rang loud in his ears. He threw the toast away from him as if he had been burnt by it, scorched even. He stumbled off the bed, heaving and spitting onto the floor, unable to get the taste of copper out of his mouth, unable to stop the shaking. 

Madam Pomfrey fretted, wondering aloud if he were coming down with the flu and Remus wondered if he’d ever feel properly hungry again. 

When she finally settled him back into bed and refreshed his mint tea, a hefty spoonful of honey stirred in, she left him with a bowl of porridge and orders for him to finish it before he could leave. His head pounded within his skull and his fingers shook slightly as they dragged his favourite muggle pen across a wrinkled page in his sketchbook. The only thing he could stand to do, lest he burst into flames. 

Circles, he was drawing. Endless black circles, over and over again, his mind filled with nothing but the smell and taste of offal and cat hair. Of the hollow feeling in his chest and the emptiness of his stomach. Of the queasiness, just under the surface, relentless and persistent. 

Remus took his leave after hiding the porridge in a bedpan of a neighbouring bed, not knowing how to vanish it in any more of a sophisticated way, not able to stomach the smell of it near him. When she came to dismiss him, he shoved his sketchbook into his briefcase and left without a word. Pushing open the creaking wooden doors to the corridor, he was ambushed by his three friends who had been waiting and pacing with long suffering sighs. 

“Finally!” exclaimed James, rushing forward and hugging Remus too tight, making him wince. 

“_ Merlin_, Remus, you look like death warmed over, mate,” Sirius said, eyeing him speculatively, his gaze lingering on the scratches of his face. 

“I feel like it.” He said gruffly, struggling to remember how humans behaved with one another. 

Peter side-eyed Sirius reproachfully and said, “You look hungry, did Madam Pomfrey feed you or do you need to come to dinner.”

He shook his head and downcast his eyes, not wanting to see their worried glances, letting the lie roll off his tongue. “I ate a big meal just now, she said I have to rest. Some flu going around.”

His stomach grumbled in protest as he said the words, an acidic burning rising in his chest. He swallowed as James put his hand to his forehead, assessing Remus for himself. 

“Hmm. Are you sure you shouldn’t stay in the hospital wing?” 

“She said I’m not contagious, just need some rest—” 

“Remus, what happened to your face?” James cut in, looking horrified, grabbing Remus’s cheeks between his hands and taking in the new scratches along his face and forehead like some parody of an old mother hen. 

“Fell out of bed.” He lied lamely. 

“You fell out of bed,” Sirius said with a flat voice, not a question. 

“Nightmare.” He shrugged, his face heating under their combined scrutiny and concern. “Just worried about my mum— been dreaming about her a lot.” He tried to smile reassuringly, but James looked even more worried at the gesture, his hands still holding his face, squeezing harder than Remus thought necessary. Peter and Sirius shared a _ look _ that he did not care for. One that said they knew he was full of shit. 

“I’ll get you some tea and toast.” Announced Sirius, trying to regain some of his usual boisterousness. 

“No!” Remus said, his voice harder and louder than he meant it. 

They all startled and looked oddly at him as if he’d gone mad. Maybe he had.

“I just— I mean, I don’t want any toast. I’m full.” 

“Okay— if you’re sure,” Sirius said, an eyebrow raised.

Remus nodded. He was sure. He was sure he wasn’t hungry for the following three weeks as well. Stomach leaden and head foggy, eating little more than endless cups of sugary mint tea and the occasional chocolate frog left on his bedside table by Sirius or Peter. Sometimes in the night he’d find himself robotically dipping chocolate chip cookies into glasses of milk or hot chocolate, or slices of apple with peanut butter, that had somehow appeared at his bedside table, eating just enough to clear his head and be reminded of how much he hated the act itself. 

His friends watched him closely, looking more and more worried as the days went by, as the stacks of toast they brought him went untouched (though he had become partial to a specially brewed mug of hot chocolate), as his clothes hung looser and looser on his slight frame, his cheeks and eyes becoming more hollow. But, he couldn’t eat like the rest of them. He couldn’t bring himself to want food or even allow himself to think of it. He was unable to stomach the thought that he had ever eaten meat. Flesh. Horrified at the thought of tearing into the pieces of something that could once think for itself, yet, not anymore. 

He began skipping even the ritual of sitting through meals in the great hall, unable to face the smells of foods that once brought him joy and contentment. The sound of chewing and gnashing, of scraping utensils on plates, of laughter and banging goblets, much to normal for him to be allowed to partake. 

And then, very slowly, another ritual emerged. One of Sirius Orion Black taking his hand in the dead of night, slipped beneath the invisibility cloak together, taking secret passages and hidden stairs down to the fruit bowl with the pear that giggled. 

And the soft warmth of the firelight and the ancient wooden tables felt inviting and welcoming and, most of all, _ forgiving_. And Sirius Orion Black would tell him stories of the magical world while he nibbled on the freshly cut slices of green apples, schmeared with peanut butter, sometimes bits of cubed cheeses, carrot sticks and bell peppers dipped in thick spreads, and Remus would laugh along while he re-enacted giant wars and goblin rebellions, Sirius nothing but theatrics. 

And Sirius would distract him and delay all thoughts of the terrors and the horrors of a boy who had killed and eaten a cat. He’d distract him with tall tales and stories of the fae, all smiles and big gestures. And, in the shadow of Sirius and his big heart that somehow understood, Remus became just a boy in faded knit sweaters, made for him by his mom, who was dying, and who needed the forgiveness of the kitchens at night.


	5. Wood on Iron on Flesh and Bone

Sirius Orion Black was not one to rest on his laurels. Well, that’s what he would often tell himself, anyway. Particularly on chilly autumn nights like this one, lounging on the common room sofa, the one nicely positioned just far enough from the fire to be delectably warm, his feet covered by an afghan, snacking on cashews and Turkish apricots that he had surreptitiously summoned from a house elf after everyone had gone up to bed. 

It was October of his second year, and that meant one thing and one thing only. The thing he and James had been whispering, plotting, planning and dramatising about since last year’s season had rolled unceremoniously forward without them and their heroics. Quidditch tryouts. This was the year. This was their year. Their year to get on the team, to be bold and courageous and lead their haphazard team to victory, Hufflepuff and their seeker be damned! 

Sirius popped a cashew into his mouth and scowled at the memory of last year’s bitter defeat. Longbottom had nearly cried and the two Prewett twins had had to practically drag him off the field as the cup was lifted by what's-his-name. That little squirrelly looking fifth year with the sandy hair and entirely unremarkable face? Harold something. Or Harvey. Herbert? Or maybe it was Gordon. Doesn’t matter anyway. Stupid, unremarkable git. 

The worst part of it all was the Hufflepuffs were so unashamedly nice afterwards. Kind, supportive, doling out all sorts of words of encouragement and thanking the shell-shocked Gryffindors for such a well played game. It was embarrassing, really. Tried to argue it should have been a tie. A slap in the face. The bastards. 

Sirius bit into the dried fruit and chewed huffily, still scowling at the dwindling fire. No, this year would be different. This year, he and James would be on the team, and he and James wouldn’t lose to Hufflepuffs. Not on their lives. 

He had seen James fly the whole first year, the two of them sneaking out and nicking brooms from the student shed, and he was remarkable. Effortless. Excellent technique, perfect skills, like he was born to catch and throw and catch and throw and pass and dodge and score to his heart’s content. The ideal teammate. Talented, but cooperative and committed to the common goal. James would have to make chaser this year. 

And he, well, not to boastful or whatnot, but Sirius could manage a broom. He’d flown since he was a child, on holidays in the north of England, wide summers of endless fields, little daisies and cornflowers indistinct beneath him as he zipped through the air. Free and effortless and unbound. Unburdened. 

His memories of flying, though, they weren’t in the same spirit as James. No, James had grown up passing and catching and passing and scoring because he had had friends to fly with. Kids his age to wobble about on a broomstick with and to learn alongside. He’d had his dad, bless him, who was always so keen to play keeper, despite his getting on in age and his creaky knees and his mum’s worried calls from the field below to make sure he’d put on elbow and wrist guards. The Potters were like that, though, joyful and caring. Unafraid of the confines of a team. 

Sirius smiled to himself as he recounted the stories James told of growing up. It felt nothing like his history. Nothing like the stiffness and the coldness that had led Sirius into the air, into the vastness of the sky beyond. Where he could be untethered and alone. Where he could fly hard and fast into the wind and all his effort would feel like it bled out and away into the other horrors he kept so bottled up inside, hair tied back and restless along his spine.

No, the air to him was a world beyond. A place of unending restless, eddying energy, that pooled and spun and pushed him, yet held him, balanced in the emptiness between the sky above and the ground below. A place where he could stretch himself across the horizons, where he could always see the sun and the moon and the stars, and the planets, should they show themselves. A place where he never smelled port, nor felt the sharpness of a hex. 

A place he never felt the need to keep decorum. Traditions had a lovely habit of falling away so high up in the air on those lovely summer afternoons, Regulus flying off in swoops and spins and dives on his own. Two brothers, both quiet in the endless warmth of summer skies, not friends, just adjacent in life and blood and history. In knowing that they both needed the openness. The freedom. Not friends, but a closeness of another name. 

But it was after one such glorious summer in the northwest of England that Sirius had been late to dinner. He’d been late to dinner because he had been flying his old silver birch broom that had been a gift from his great uncle when he was quite small, and he had been drifting in the cool breeze and the calm of the setting sun, oblivious to such human inventions as time. 

He had been fifteen minutes late to the table, and, as was custom, his father had beaten him a minute for every minute he was late. 

Unlike his mother, his father didn’t prefer to dirty his hands. He didn’t prefer the effort, the chaotic violence, the sweat and heavy panting that was required to inflict pain. He didn’t even prefer the violent spells that he’d have to stand and cast with concerted intention. No, his magic and he himself were far too proper (and often too drunk) for those violently human acts. He was lazy in his cruelty, and who could tell if that was a blessing or a curse. 

No, his father cast a charm for his broom to beat him until it broke. And that’s precisely what it did, though he didn’t even remain in the room to observe the effect of his magic and the way it brought Sirius to his knees, then lay him across the floor. Then beat him motionless while he tried to crawl away. 

And then Sirius didn’t have a broom to fly any more. 

So, back at Hogwarts, he flew on ancient school brooms with James and he flew with him often that first year. And he flew without the fear of punishment, lazy or otherwise. And he started to learn the great joy of having a friend. Especially one so capable and well versed in the art of being a friend in return. And Sirius became very attached to sharing the air with James, and when James had come back to school all bounding, bright and full of energy, desperate to prove himself on the pitch, Sirius could not fathom the irascible jealousy of having to sit in the stands below while James took to the air and flew with others. And, perhaps, his first friend in the air would be lost. And, you know, there was that secondary threat of losing to Hufflepuff, yet again this year, and that was also an intolerable risk. 

So, Sirius had signed up for tryouts, too. He wasn’t a catching-passing-scoring type of flyer. He knew that. It wasn’t as though he was delusional about his skills (not like Peter, the shameful lump, who'd tried out and fallen from his broom not a minute in, for shame). Sirius popped another cashew in his mouth and ruminated, listening to the simmering fire and the soft snoring that was drifting down from the girls dormitory. 

No Sirius had found a new love, up there in the air, a new temptation. A new place to put all of his fears and worries and all of his anger, so hot and righteous and glorious beneath his skin. James had tossed him a beaters bat one Sunday afternoon in September, and Sirius had let his hand wrap around it, strong and sure and absolute, and in the split second between the feel of the polished oak beneath his palm and the whirring approach of the bludger, Sirius had stopped thinking. 

His mind had gone beautifully, wonderfully, effortlessly blank. He had gone blank and he had put all of the simmering horrible rage that had so often left him restless and reeling and full of an inescapable desire for danger, and he let run right down his arm, into his fingers, and into the sweeping pull of the oak as it connected with the whistling chunk of iron. 

And his face had split in such a satisfied, bone deep pleasure. A gleeful laugh, one he was so unaccustomed to, had escaped his chest and joined the wind in his hair and the slipstream down his back. 

Later on, back in the dormitory with Remus and Peter, James had told them what had happened, had framed it as the epic saga of how beaters are born. And all Sirius could think was that he had an ache for the satisfying way in which the wood connected with the iron. The power of it. The way it radiated through him and he radiated through it. And Sirius silently thought of how his shoulder didn’t hurt at all. 

It was only late at night when he was alone that he wondered if this was yet another gift of his blood, legacy of the house of Black. If this was just another way he knew that somewhere, deep down, he too had a penchant for violence. 

So he fell asleep on the common room sofa, feet under the afghan, the fire nothing but ash and embers. 

_____________

He and James had made the team of course. It was on the notice board three days after tryouts. And Sirius had already known he and James would make it, because the Prewett twins, who were in their fourth year now, had come to them afterward and told them Longbottom would be a fool not to let them join, and they had shared four butterbeers between them, a toast to the promise of the future. 

Sirius liked Gideon Prewett. Liked his soft smile and his strawberry blonde hair and the way it swooped and fell across his face when he laughed. He had all kinds of freckles that crossed his nose, and he looked like his own constellation. Everyone said he was handsome, more so than his much more rule-abiding and uptight twin, and Sirius wasn’t one to disagree.

Gideon was his fellow beater, and seemed to thrive in the mindlessness of the chase, the hit, the chase, the hit and the satisfaction of iron on wood and then iron on bone or soft flesh. He’d smile and tilt his head back and laugh, and his strawberry blonde hair would fly back and in some captivating way, he seemed to make the violence of it all seem so soft. And Sirius found himself watching Gideon quite a lot. 

He watched the way he swung his bat, the way he coordinated all the power of his muscles together, like everything was in fluid, ecstatic motion, like he was seamless and effortless and every piece of him knew it. Practiced it together. 

He watched the way his shoulders grew thick and his stance became wide. The way he was the weight of everywhere he stood. The way he appeared solid and strong, even while he lay in the grass with his arms behind his head and his strawberry blonde hair in a halo, even while his freckle constellation made him seem disarmingly sweet. Like something from one of the old tales of the old gods; demons and fae and sprites, made human. 

He watched the way he differed from his brother. 

Fabian was a chaser along with James and Frank Longbottom, the fifth year and team captain. The three of them were constantly huddling together, heads bowed over some scrap of parchment where one of them had been drawing intricate plans of attack, defense formations, three dimensional diagrams of drops and gravity-defying passes. Fabian was serious. His hair had been cut short, and the strength of him felt less solidly broad and more like sinew, braided tight. He didn’t smile nearly as much as Gideon. 

The chasers became a close knit trio quite quickly, and Sirius was surprised to find he didn’t mind as much as he thought he would, sitting next to Gideon at the Gryffindor table in the great hall, watching the three of them scheme, brows furrowed so very seriously, while he and Gideon sat back to back and talked about nothing in particular. 

Well, not quite nothing in particular. Many of their conversations ended up being about the seemingly endless number of girls that would happen to walk by, smiling and lifting fingers in the half intention of a wave. Girls that would giggle and whisper behind their hands, watching the two boys, both of whom had high cheekbones and a resplendent haughtiness that drew gazes in their direction, Sirius with his dark eyes and dark hair and Gideon with his effortless strawberry blonde and the sun-kissed quality of his smile. 

Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, blondes and brunettes and girls with dark eyes and long legs. Hufflepuffs with big, curly afros and sweet round cheeks. He and Gideon seemed to lure them all, draw them in like little doves in the desert, crowding close around an effluvial spring. 

It was on one such afternoon in late October, the three chasers stomping around the pitch, fervently preparing for the first match of the season against Slytherin, that Sirius and Gideon, who were lounging in the stands, drew the concerted attentions of two Ravenclaw fourth years, whom Gideon greeted politely but warmly, as old friends do. Sirius watched him take the hand of one he called Lyla Spinnet, twirling her gently and complimenting her lovely grace about her, then sitting back down in the stands and drawing her so effortlessly into his lap, where she leaned in and kissed him, decrying how Gideon was nothing but charm and she was too clever to fall for his honeyed words. Not again, anyway. 

Gideon laughed the way he laughs when he connects with that spinning chunk of iron, with his head back and his hair falling away from his face. 

“Oh but Lyla, why kiss me then? Why remind me all the ways I am a fool for you?” Gideon has one arm wrapped around her waist and she has one across his shoulders, drawing lazy fingers through his hair. 

“Because hope is a beautiful thing, darling Gideon.” Lyla kissed him again and stood, leaving his bottom lip so obviously kissed, wet and pinked. 

Sirius and Gideon both watched the two girls leave, their long straight hair swishing down their backs as they whispered between each other, arms linked and walk slow and full of sashay as their shoulders bumped, laughing together. Halfway across the pitch, just before the path back up to the school, Lyla looked back over her shoulder at Gideon, and even from a distance Sirius could see the mischievous way her cheeks had coloured. 

“I’ll have her tonight, I think.” Gideon had said, leaning back against the stands, arms wide and chest puffed out with the promise of the evening ahead. “Top of the astronomy tower, I think. If it’s not too cold.” 

And Sirius had not known what to say, so he laughed and leaned back on his arms too, thinking of Gideon and the way he had kissed her. 

______________

It was two days later that Sirius was sitting with Remus out behind the greenhouses, the day frosty, with thick clouds rolling in from the west across the grounds, the autumn sun only occasionally breaking through to warm the old stone of the buildings. 

Remus had come out from the relative warmth and humidity of the greenhouse, hair sticking up in odd places and his hands smelling faintly of the skunk cabbage leaves they’d been harvesting for Slughorn, his white and maroon sweater rolled back from scarred forearms. He was looking uncharacteristically bright today, smiling softly and only wavering slightly as he had folded himself down next to Sirius in the grass that was still stiff with cold. 

“Beautiful day for a sulk, young Master Black.” Remus had a lilt in there that was meant to to be friendly, playful even. Sirius sighed and looked up at the rolling masses of clouds that had cast them in shadow. He was sulking, it was true. And it was a rare enough occurrence for him to be caught in it that he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. 

“Quit calling me that, wouldn’t you Lupin? It’s gotten old.” He wound one of the long, fibrous stems around his thumb and wrist idly, letting it bite into his skin, leaving marks, long and red. He’d gotten older, is what he meant. He’d gotten older and further from the boy whom everyone had known as the young master of the House of Black. He regretted saying anything as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Remus didn’t know that. Remus didn’t think of him like that. Remus was trying to be funny and familiar. And friendly. For fuck’s sake. 

“I didn’t mean any harm by it.” Remus’s voice was soft and careful suddenly, and Sirius looked away from the clouds and out into the depths of the forest. It had been so long since he had wandered beneath the trees, and he distracted himself with the prospect. Dark and lonely and threatening. Wild and unrepentant. Dangerous. Just what he needed to forget about being a young master. About being a Black. 

Sirius’s thoughts of midnight wanderings and the tantalising prospect of getting lost were interrupted by Remus, who had reached out and put his hand over the wiry stem of the long grass, stopping him from pulling it ever tighter. “I’m sorry, Sirius. Whatever it is. I’m sorry.” 

“Me too, Remus. I’m sorry, too.” Sirius looked back at him and the two friends laughed softly together, letting the tension fall away as the rolling clouds moved on and the autumn sun cast gentle rays again. 

“Had lunch yet, or been busy helping Pomona?” It had been a week or so since Sirius had dragged Remus down to the kitchens, having been busy flying late into the night with team practice. Their seeker, Cordelia Pepper, a fifth year girl with no time for anyone’s shenanigans, was adamant their boots not touch the ground until the snitch had been caught, then re-caught. It had left Sirius too bone tired for any midnight wanderings of late, and James was often snoring heartily not mere moments after his head hit the pillows. 

“So busy sulking, yet, you still have time to think about my schedule? Or are you just deflecting away from whatever’s bothering you?” Remus was smiling, which pulled his scar across his cheek in a funny way, and resulted in something shiny and endearing that Sirius had missed seeing in the late nights of wood connecting with iron and the camaraderie of the locker rooms afterwards. 

Sirius pulled an apple from his pocket and handed it over to Remus. “Touché, old boy.” 

Remus snorted, taking the apple and rubbing it absentmindedly against his sweater, though Sirius could still feel his gaze on him. He watched a late afternoon murmuration of tiny black birds sweep and dive, all moving as one massive cloud of their own, returning to their roosts somewhere far off to the northwest. Perhaps there were cliffs there. A gully or gorge. Or perhaps they nested in great colonies amongst old trees, all soft twittering and murmuring together, warm and close in the depths of the forest at night. 

They sat in silence as the sun sunk further down and the clouds rolled along, Remus taking small bites of the apple, Sirius, having dropped the wiry stem of grass, filling his pockets with small stones. 

_________________

The ground was muddy and the sky was a solid, flat grey the morning of their first quidditch match. They trooped out of the locker rooms, clad in red and gold and quidditch leathers laced up around their shins and wrists, Sirius and James touching foreheads together, ruffling each others hair before slapping the others shoulders and running together out toward, and then onto, the pitch. At centre field, they split to their different positions, Sirius now back to back with Gideon, beaters clubs gripped tightly against weathered hands. Neither of them wore gloves. 

“Ready, Black?” Gideon’s voice was calm, but hungry, and Sirius was grinning, filling himself with the same single minded drive. Hunger, yes, that was it. Wood against iron. Iron against flesh. Against bone. All things in unison, together, unfettered, powerful and unforgiving. 

Wood against iron. 

“Ready.” He slapped the wood of his bat into his open palm, and readied to mount the school broom he’d nicked so long ago, the one he’d befriended, a bit slow and old and cumbersome, but then again, he didn’t need speed, just ferocity, and he had that aplenty. And he was hungry, and that would prove dangerous enough. 

James mounted his broom, eyes quick and decisive, darting between Longbottom and Fabian. Cordelia wore thick corn rows and a steely expression, staring down the similarly focused Ravenclaw seeker, a thin boy with short hair, of whom Sirius had forgotten the name. Behind him, Ravenclaw’s chasers included Lyla and her friend, Alena Greer, but Sirius wasn’t worried. He didn’t think Gideon knew how to play favourites. Not like this. Not with a bat in his hand and hunger in his heart. 

At the whistle, they were up in the air, and Sirius let the noise of the crowd fall away, his eyes and ears trained on the whistling bludger that was his charge, which had shot off down the field in their direction of the Gryffindor keeper, a sixth year girl by the name of Danae Montrose, who was wide and threatening, stationed before her middle hoop. 

Cordelia and the Ravenclaw seeker spun by him on the left, while above him Lyla and Alena passed and dipped and spun and caught the quaffle. Longbottom and James swerving between them. 

The chaos of the match mattered little, and Sirius let his bat swing wide and heavy and collide so satisfyingly into his chunk of iron, which had been hurtling directly for Danae, but now was redirected wide and haphazard toward the section of stands that housed so many indistinct green-clad supporters, then arcing back to find purchase among a knot of Ravenclaw brooms. 

Protect his team. Hunt the others. That’s all he needed to do. 

Gideon sped by him, his shoulder just brushing against Sirius’s, his wild laughter quick and breathy in his ear, but just as quick to fade in the storm of so many flurrying bodies and brooms. Sirius felt himself smile and bloom with the franticness of it all. The chaos. His bat connected again with his bludger, and his stomach pulled tight as it barely missed the skinny bones of the Ravenclaw seeker, who was mid dive and so vulnerable, who was just saved by a miss-hit of the Ravenclaw beater’s bat. 

Sirius chased the hurtling ball of iron again up the field, dimly aware of the commentary provided by what he thought was Davy Gudgeon, but couldn’t quite be sure. It was all rather jumbled and mumbled, and occasionally, Minerva’s voice could be detectable in the background, adamant and shrill. 

The commentator bumbled out what he thought was the score, but Sirius couldn’t quite hear, and it wasn’t so important, after all. Chasers in tight formation whipped by him. Potter. Longbottom. Prewett. The names all blurred together Davy Gudgeon struggled to keep up. Gideon's bludger clipped his shoulder and the pain was sharp and clarifying. 

Sirius ducked and dodged between players, hunting his blunger, hunting the satisfaction of bat on black iron, lost in the chase. Lost in the- 

But the whistle had sounded. Cordelia had somersaulted over her broom and now stood, midfield, splattered with mud, but shining smile brimming up at cheering supporters, red and gold confetti falling from so many different wands. In her hand, she held aloft a tiny golden snitch. 

They had won. 

Sirius dropped his broom down toward the gathering players, diving on top of his bludger, which continued fighting hard against his chest as he landed, feet deep in the mud as he stumbled, both arms wrapped tight around the ball of iron that beat against the bones above his heart.

Gideon landed next to him, similarly struggling with his charge, his strawberry hair slicked back with sweat, his breathing heavy and his constellation of stars blooming with a fresh bruise along his cheekbone. They wrestled together, shoulder to shoulder, latching the hunks of iron away behind chains, where they would remain until someone called upon their restless penchant for violence again. Until Sirius and Gideon were needed to beat them back into submission. To harness their chaotic, unrelenting bloodlust for the sake of their team. 

They stood next to each other a moment, both panting. Then they both started laughing and Gideon pulled Sirius into a hug, the smell of sweat and mud and victory building as the chasers and keeper, who had hoisted Cordelia aloft, marched forward and amassed them into their triumphant hoard. 

And around Sirius were the press of bodies and the glorious feeling of a winning team, a fight and a struggle and a sacrifice for victory. All of them, roaring like the lions they were. The lions they are. 

And it was more intoxicating than any bubbling drink he’d ever had. 

______________

That night in the common room, Sirius had stood atop an old cherry table and toasted rounds of butterbeer to James and Frank and Fabian, then Cordelia and Danae. And he’d slopped some down his front amid the laughter and the cheers, nearly falling from his table, but then he’d turned to Gideon, and toasted him most fervently of all, and they all drank together, cheering and revelling in the glory of their house. In the red and the gold and the beguiling charm of conquest. 

And once he had jumped down, his shoulder slapped and his hand shook, his drink refilled yet again, a pretty third year with blue eyes and dark hair had sidled up to him to whisper in his ear about how well he flew and how strong he looked up there in the air on his broom. And she was all long eyelashes and the worrying of her lip. And he had laughed and let her run her hand along the bruise that had begun to form along his upper arm, deep and purple and wide, as if this one, and not the many others he had seen grow along his skin, this one proved that he was so brave and worthy of her affections. 

Sirius looked her up and down, and he wasn’t sure if the same hunger he had felt on the pitch had ever left, so he took her hand and pulled her closer, the both of them falling into the plushest of armchairs before the fire, and he kissed her, just as he had seen Gideon do, and she tasted like butterbeer and this new kind of bravery. 

And that, that was intoxicating, too. 

______________

The next week, it was hard for Sirius to remember what life was like before he had joined the quidditch team. He and James had very quickly ascended to this new kind of celebrity status throughout the castle, and maybe they were resting on their laurels, just a bit. And, if Sirius was fair, the outcome of the match itself wasn’t really decided on him and James as much as it had been decided by Cordelia, who’s focus and tenacity was unmatched, yet who seemed to get the least amount of glory from her peers. 

But, Sirius wasn’t one to argue with the will of the people, and in the days that followed, he and James let themselves be lavished in admiring looks and, particularly, eyelash-fluttering gazes, and he let himself be carried on the ego-boosting swell of goodwill that followed their success. 

But it only really lasted until the following Tuesday, until Remus, of all people, brought reality right back down and around Sirius, back to weighing on his shoulders and anchoring him to the ground. Back to the idea that there may be more important things than quidditch, and his newfound popularity. 

Remus had gotten a letter from home. It wasn’t often that his dad sent an owl, but it was always for a sinister reason, and the three of them had noticed that Remus seemed to go quite off for some time following these. They had all assumed that it was bad news about his mum, but no one had actually asked, and they all had begun a rotating schedule of making sure Remus didn’t fall too far away from the land of the living and forget to eat. 

On Tuesday, Remus excused himself from breakfast, the letter still crisp and white in his hand, and it was early on Thursday evening that Sirius made the choice to step away from practice, not bothering to change, but walking sure-footedly into the muffled quiet of the library in his quidditch leathers (which, of course, started all kinds of flurried whispering, and maybe a swoon or two), all the way to the back corner that housed rare books on all kinds of mythical creatures from around the world. It was there that he found Remus, pale and a bit sweaty, eyes unfocused and bloodshot, gazing out the stained glass of the ancient library windows that faced east. 

Sirius, without prelude, held out his ungloved hand, rough from that afternoon’s session with the bat. “Come on, Lupin.”

Remus looked up at him, shaking his head slightly. “No, Sirius. No, I’m fine. Have a lot of reading to do, that’s all.” The hand that held his quill aloft was tremulous. He was pale in a frightening sort of way. 

“You’ve missed all three today, Lupin. And who knows about the days before. I’m not here so you can miss another.” Sirius’s voice was very loud in the quiet of the library, and he could tell that he was embarrassing Remus, but he didn’t mind if it motivated him to get up and follow him back down to the kitchens, where they could sit and eat or talk, or whatever it was that they did, whatever it was they had done in the warmer days, before winter had seemed to set in. 

Remus stared a moment, then slowly packed his things, hissing for Sirius to be quiet, Madam Pince sticking her vulture-like neck around a stack of books, eyes narrowed and severe. 

Sirius tapped his foot against the soft carpeting, and bits of mud and detritus from his uniform fell below him, and Lupin seemed to move more slowly still. 

“Stop it Sirius. I’m going. Give me my bag, will you?” Remus was wobbly on his feet and the wavering intensified as he reached for his things, heavy and disordered, parchment scattered about his feet. 

Sirius pulled his wand from the holster against his thigh and spelled his things away, tucked neatly into his bag. Then he lifted the old canvas onto his shoulder, offering his other arm to Remus, who seemed as though he wouldn’t make it far alone. 

They walked slowly together to the hidden passage that spiralled down from the third floor, and Sirius demanded Remus jump on his back so he could carry him down the dark and twisting stairs, and Remus did, without much fuss, which was not a good sign, if Sirius thought about it too hard. 

By the time they’d clambered through the doorway behind the fruit bowl, Remus looked ghastly, and Sirius wasn’t sure how to fix anything anymore. 

So he didn’t try to fix it. He just snapped his fingers and asked the house elves to prepare him a meal of meats and cheeses and soft breads, plenty butter. He asked for every rich and dense and wonderfully comforting food he could think of, from chicken noodle to matzah ball soup and mashed potato with chives, peas and fresh lettuce from the gardens. 

He asked for prosciutto and pancetta and he even asked (in french) a little elf of whom he was fond to please rustle up some cassoulet and flamiche, to which she had bowed and replied, "Oui monsieur Black," and to which he hoped Lupin would never make reference. 

And he did so while sitting down in his usual seat, and deftly tucking the linen serviette they had folded into a swan on the table directly into the collar of his quidditch robes, so that it hung down and covered his front. 

Only then did he look up at Lupin, who was similarly disassembling the swan, only shaking out the linen to lay it haphazardly in his lap. He looked tired and worn and paler than the soft light of the library had let on.

Dishes appeared before them, and Sirius began talking, as was custom, and he explained all of the small and decadent things that he had asked to the table. 

He explained the delicately rolled Italian meats, and then the several soft and crumbly cheeses. He explained the soups and the different types of onion they required. He explained the silverware, even, for each tine on each fork had meaning and a purpose, and each spoon a role. He explained the things he had known since childhood, all the things that were so meaningless and obscure, but that helped distract Lupin from the process. From the truth that Sirius had learned. That Remus was disgusted by food. Or, rather, was disgusted by himself.

He explained the rules to a properly built salad, all the while assembling ingredients and sending little samples of each dish toward Lupin, flavours married and textures elegantly weighted and apportioned. Then Sirius eagerly awaited Remus’s professional opinion. He watched the way the corners of his mouth stayed clean and how his teeth worked carefully on each new bite. The way he let himself marinate around each component. 

And Sirius waited for his critique. His unrefined and uninformed, entirely unwarranted commentary on some of the finest foods of the day, yes, but Sirius nodded and hmm’ed and ahhhh’ed his way through, as Lupin seemed to garner some semblance of his old self from each new bite. By the time Sirius was asking for a soufflé, and perhaps some creme brûlée, Remus was positively harrowing in his un-remorseful, yet very clever and witty discussion of the main courses. 

He thought the beef bourguignon bland and then the coq au vin was too salty, yet lacked paprika, of all things, and the roasted chestnuts? Dear Godric, not nearly enough butter, plus, the texture was just ghastly! And Sirius had to bite back so much laughter and joy at the way Remus got so very into character, and in that, got so very full. Got so very full without the disgust. 

And it filled Sirius, too. 

Until they both felt warmer and happier and just a little bit nourished there, sitting in the half light of the fire below the great hall. And Sirius hadn’t fixed anything, no, nothing at all, but at least he’d built just a small bridge from tonight until tomorrow. 

“Will you tell me then?” Sirius pulled his serviette from his collar and lay it down beside the pile of litchi skins, his mouth full with the rosewater taste of the fleshy fruit. 

“Tell you what?” Remus didn’t look up from cracking the shell of a litchi between his fingers, juice dripping across his palm. His brow was creased, and worry lines had returned. 

“Why you punish yourself, Remus. Why you are so cruel to your own flesh and bone.” Sirius let the elves move around the table, clearing dishes, bowing low. He let the fire pop and burn and warm them. He let Remus sit in the discomfort of his question, and he did not help him or offer him a way out. 

As the elves moved away and they were left alone again, Remus left his cracked litchi on the table and wiped his palms against his very worn trousers. Corduroy, and patched in odd places. He sighed heavily and swallowed, and Sirius watched the way his adam’s apple, far too visible, pulled down and came back up, and he watched the way in which Remus curled his fingernails against his palms. 

“My mum.” Remus closed his eyes, and Sirius thought he might be close to tears. “She’s ill.” 

“So you’ve said, Remus. But you’ve never told us what that means. You’ve never told us what it’s like, how it’s hurting you. You never tell us anything. You sit there and you eat all of that pain instead of food and you think it will somehow nourish you.” 

The silence between them lingers for a moment and a log in the fire crumbles, collapsing into the ash below, sparks joining the smoke, pulled up and out of the chimney. There’s tears tracking down Remus’s cheeks and he’s looking at his hands, still balled into fists in his lap. 

“She was denied surgery. The chemo that she had, what had made her sick all summer, it didn’t work. It didn’t help enough. It just made her sick for nothing, and now she can’t have surgery, anyway, and it really is all over.” Remus took a great big shuddering breath, and brought his hands up quickly to wipe at his wet cheeks. “She’s going to die. There’s nothing I or anyone can do. And they’re not even going to let her have surgery to close this wound she has on her chest that doesn’t stop bleeding and it’s so horrible, Sirius, it’s so horrible.” 

Sirius sat across from Remus as he cried and he felt so unaccustomed to the love that Remus had for his mum and the way he wore her pain like those baggy sweaters she knit him and the way he fed himself with nothing but cruelty of her mortality. He didn’t know what to say, because what was there? 

What was there but the truth that death comes, often when we beg it not to. Death comes and finds its way into rooms full of love and kindness and death comes for innocence as quietly and as surely as it comes for the aged. This is a truth that Sirius had always known, yet Sirius had never seen before him. 

Death comes, and that can hurt so badly for those it leaves behind. 

He let Remus cry for a while still, elbows on the table and face in his bony hands, sweater still rolled so fastidiously above his elbows and snot thick and ugly draining from his nose. When Remus had cried himself hoarse and the tears no longer came, and his serviette was damp and derelict, Sirius stood and offered Remus his hand again. “Come on, Lupin.” 

“Where now, Sirius? Please, I’m so tired.” Remus’s voice was feeble and pitiful and Sirius couldn’t let that be the only thing left of his friend. 

“Let’s go.” And he motioned with his outstretched hand, which Remus took, and let Sirius pull him back to his feet, thanking all the scurrying elves vociferously and generously as they left back through the doorway behind the bowl of fruit. 

They snuck up the stone stairway into the entrance hall, then slipped out the front doors and found themselves walking, shoulder to shoulder, out onto the grounds. It was cold and their breath rose in front of them in little clouds of steam, their feet crunching along on the stiffened grass, dusted in frost. Sirius shrugged off his outer quidditch robe and threw it over Remus’s shoulders, who had begun to shiver in the dark of the early evening. 

They walked in silence to the edge of the lake, where they followed it’s gentle shoreline around to the east, Sirius occasionally stopping to skip stones and call little words of praise to the giant squid, who must be lurking somewhere deep in the depths of the water, no tentacles rising to scold them tonight. 

It was about halfway around the lake that Sirius started talking. 

“I ride a school broom because my father beat me with mine when I was eleven. Beat me with it until it broke. Not him himself, obviously. He used magic. But, still, you know. It’s what I think about every time I wish I had my own broom.” 

Remus had stopped walking a moment and was looking over at Sirius with something like a constipated expression, his eyes still puffy and his nose still a bit blocked from all the crying earlier. When he started walking again, he made a disgusted noise deep in his throat. Something like the sound he had made when he had tried the pâte. 

Sirius laughed, and it felt good to shake off the heaviness of what he had said, as if he were dropping some of the stones that he had been piling up in his pockets, stones that he hadn’t noticed were so heavy until he saw the unbearable lightness of something like love. 

“I worry sometimes that I’m like them.” And at Remus’s confused expression, Sirius clarified. “Violent, You know. Cruel.” 

“But you aren’t violent, Sirius.” 

“But I am, Remus. I am and I like the thrill and the power and the force and it feels so liberating. I don’t like being violent to hurt someone, no, but I do like the rush. The feeling. I mean, half of me thinks it’s wrong and terrible and terrifying, but then the other half of me is singing with it, like it’s all I’ve needed to feel whole.” 

They both walk a little ways further before Remus breaks the silence this time. 

“I don’t know why I find eating so hard. Why I find taking care of myself so impossible. Why I feel better so empty and vacant, like air.” He sounds the most tired, but also the most sure of himself when he says these things, and Sirius stays quiet, because he wants to listen. He wants to know how grief, and love, is haunting his friend. 

“It just. It feels disgusting. I feel disgusting. Like I shouldn’t be allowed. Like it’s so terribly human, but so terribly not. And the sounds are so loud and the smells are so strong and sometimes everything just smells rotten or bloody or like entrails. And I hate the smell of entrails. And it all just makes me want to feel so empty.” 

There are two owls calling to each other across the wooded edge of the lake. They pause while Remus and Sirius walk between the scattered trees, then resume their hooting as the two boys move away, both of them quiet, both of them lost. Both of them reeling in the space and time beyond confessions. Beyond truth. Neither of them sure where to go from here. 


	6. Holidays, Cold and Hungry

_ November 3, 1972 _

“_Potter_, you’re an absolutely atrocious toad!” Lily’s tone of barely controlled rage floated through the potions dungeon as the class craned their neck to see what the noise was all about. 

“It’s not my fault!” James sniped defensively, kneeling down to pick up desiccated chunks of _ echinopsis pachanoi_. 

“No, nothing ever is, is it?” She hissed, taking her wand out and casting it at the pile of shattered glass as Slughorn, looking thoroughly uncomfortable with the prospect of discipline and dealing with angry preteens, shuffled towards the fray. 

“Goodness me, had a bit of an accident? Did we?” He wafted, surveying a few bottles of his potion ingredients in disarray on the floor. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” James asked, ignoring their professor, his voice rising. Equally as angry now, fists clenched at his side, vibrating with the intensity of it— of weeks of pent up angst and agitation. Remus grimaced. 

“You think you’re something special, don’t you? The rules just don’t apply to _ precious Potter _ and his friends!” She said, sounding waspish and cutting. 

James spluttered. “I’ve kept my word! I haven’t so much as _ looked _ at your Snivellus!” 

“Ladies, Gentlemen, please,” Slughorn implored, trying to regain some order as he began to spell away more broken jars, “it’s time to start the lesson, now, everyone—”

“Yeah, we haven’t done anything to your boyfriend!” Sirius jumped in, not to be left behind in moments of conflict. Remus dropped his face in his hands and groaned softly. Peter had gotten out of his seat, as had others. Some started to crowd around the potion cupboards. Remus stayed put, rubbing his eyes hard. 

“Everyone back to their seats, come along now!” Slughorn insisted, looking more and more like a ruffled chicken. 

Severus interjected indignantly. “_Word_? What word? What is he talking about Lily?”

Lily shot him an unreadable look, as if to beg for silence. 

Sirius whistled, a gleeful, triumphant sound. “Don’t tell me Snivellus, here, doesn’t know?”

“What don’t I know?” Severus demanded. 

“Our timing today is very precise— we best be getting on with the lesson, Mister Black if you please—” Slughorn was trying again, gesturing for Sirius to stop blockading the aisle.

“Your _ girlfriend _ here, Snivelly, she thinks she’s got dirt on us.” James sneered, a look that did not suit him. 

“And I’ll make good on it if you don’t _ stand down_, Potter.” She muttered through clenched teeth, stepping forward. Severus shot out a hand. It was clear he didn’t want to be seen hiding behind her, didn’t want her fighting his battles. 

“That right?” Sirius taunted. “Well— I’m calling your bluff, Evans. Go on, tell Horace here,” he exclaimed, patting Slughorn on the back like an old mate, “tell him what you think you know.”

Lily stood there with her arms crossed, staring daggers between James and Sirius, her silence telling them all they needed to know. 

“Nooo?” James asked, a taunting lilt to his voice. “You _ don’t _ know, do you?” 

Remus could hear the smile in Sirius’s voice. “I have to hand it to you, Evans, it was a brave bluff. Quite effective for a while, too.” Sirius said, with mock admiration and a dramatic hand gesture. 

It was James’s turn to whistle appreciatively. “Got you rumbled, Evans. The deal is off.” He turned to face Severus, who hadn’t moved a muscle but was breathing hard and angrily, brow drawn down in a hard line. “Better watch yourself, _ mate _. You’ll have to fight your own battles from here on out. No slithering out behind your girlfriend.”

There was an ugly silence before James and Sirius turned to walk back to their seats, leaving Lily and Severus both red faced and seething in their wake. 

Slughorn dithered impatiently in the front of the class, pointlessly rearranging things on his desk. “Now if everyone could take their seats and measure out five grams of—”

“Oh, I nearly forgot.” James said, he turned back around and walked to the shelves and casually plucked a jar of pickled _ phymateus viridipes _ before winking at Lily with a cheeky dimpled smile and striding away. 

Remus didn’t see what happened, as he had turned back to face his professor, but, the sound of several shattering jars rent through the air, again, as well as a few gasps, and Lily’s low voice hissing “Sev, _ no_!”

James and Severus were rolling around on the floor, their wands discarded. Sirius had thrown himself bodily into the fray. Peter had shouted a few phrases that should never be repeated in front of polite company, while the class around them swelled and began to chant and jeer in equal measure as the three of them flailed about on the stone floor. Lily shouted angrily above the din and Slughorn looked absolutely horrified. 

Remus smelled the sulphur on the air, saw the rising yellow tendrils of smoke, then _ BANG _, and a flash of light startled them all into silence. 

When the smoke cleared, Lily stood, covered in soot, her red hair standing on end, making her look like a particularly singed lion. 

“Ten points from my own house and twenty from Gryffindor!” Slughorn finally yelled. “Gentlemen, see me after class for your detention— for the love of Morgana, Mister Black, get back to your seat—” 

Slughorn, looking worn and disappointed, spoke softly to Lily. “Miss Evans, if that was arrowroot and gnarl quill you better go see Madam Pomfrey. Mister Potter, please see to it that she gets there safely.”

James groaned loudly and got up off the ground with the help of Sirius.

“None of that now, go on, you two.” 

Lily stomped off without waiting for James, who grimaced and trotted after her, his feeble apologies echoing down the hall. 

Severus was standing on shaky legs, his clothes rumpled and haphazard on his lanky frame, trying to lay them flat, his spindly hair plastered to his face. Sirius stood, breathing hard but looking austere and collected, running a hand through his tousled locks, glaring at Severus. 

“Mister Black please move to work with Mister Pettigrew— Mister Lupin please move to work with Mister Snape.” Slughorn bustled. It was a moment before any of them moved, grumbling and angry. 

At the end of the lesson, no one had lost any limbs, Sirius eventually stopped berating Peter, and Remus was thinking it hadn’t been so bad working with Severus, who had taken their potion sample to the front of the class. 

He was packing up when he heard a loud thud and a few outbreaks of laughter. 

His eyes shot up to see Severus’s sprawled out in the aisle where his face had connected hard with the cold stones of the dungeon floor, blood blooming forward. Sirius slouched in his seat, foot sticking out innocently, his elbow hooked over the back of his chair and mouth smirking. Remus, without thinking, rushed forward to help Severus, glaring irritatedly at his friend who looked defiant and resolute, a determined glare marring his patrician features. 

“Don’t touch me!” Severus shouted, throwing Remus’s hand from his shoulder, his own pressed awkwardly over his nose, trying to stop the torrent flooding from it, as he ran from the class. 

Remus sighed, throwing Peter and Sirius a _ look _, before grabbing Severus’s tatty pack from their bench and rushing after him. He was gone from sight by the time he emerged into the hall. 

He hoped he would find Severus in the hospital wing, but as Remus climbed the steps, he could hear echoing shouts, familiar and shrill. He could smell the discontent on the air. 

“You’re just a big _ bully_!” Lily was shouting as Remus climbed into view. 

“Why do you defend him! You see who he’s friends with, don’t you?” James yelled back, equally as angry.

“You can’t choose who you’re roomed with! Why do you even care so much!”

“You don’t see it, do you?” James retorted, deflecting. “His friends are bigoted and say horrible things about muggleborns!”

“And Sirius?” She asked, voice dropping, “Don’t think I haven’t heard his commentary before! Or does he not count?”

James spluttered as Remus cleared his throat. They both startled.

“Sorry, Lily, but is Severus in the hospital wing?” He asked politely, ignoring the way James whipped his head around. 

“Why would he— what did you _ do_?” She yelled, stepping towards him. 

“Nothing! Nothing!” He said quickly, extending Snape’s pack forward, his hands up in surrender, “Just wanted to bring his bag, is all.”

She snatched it out of Remus’s grasp with an angry sound. “What did _ Sirius _ do?” She demanded. 

“Uh—” He gaped, shooting an awkward look at James who shook his head, begging Remus’s silence. He sighed. He hated lying. He had enough to lie about. 

“Tripped him. Looks like he broke his nose. Thought he’d be up here.”

Lily let out a growling sigh. “You’re all a bunch of _ assholes_!” She yelled before stomping off down the stairs, presumably towards the Slytherin dungeons to find her injured friend. 

“Mate?!” James asked in an incredulous whisper, turning on Remus as soon as Lily was out of sight, as if he had betrayed them. 

“Don’t—” Remus said sharply, throwing his hand up, irritation amplifying his pounding head and shaky limbs. “Just— okay?”

James ran his hands harshly through his windswept hair and nodded angrily, defeated, looking a little ashamed of himself. 

“I’m going to the library.” Remus said in a weak voice, turning on his heels. 

“But it’s lunchtime—” James tried, as he always did. 

Remus threw his hand up again, shaking his head as he descended the stairs without another word. 

______________

_ November 13, 1972 _

Remus swam slowly to wakefulness in the deep folds of his maroon duvet. The familiarity of soft shuffling and hushed laughter told him it was nothing more than James and Sirius taking out the cloak for a bit of midnight mischief. Probably out to check the fifth floor for that secret passage the portrait of the three maidens had mentioned. He nestled into his blankets further, knowing they wouldn’t wake him tonight. They’d been acting like kicked dogs around him since the fight with Severus, as if Remus’s very existence was a reprimand. He pulled the blankets in tighter to fight against the chill of the evening that threatened to invade his warm bubble. 

He was often cold, these days, his limbs rarely feeling like anything other than ice, even beneath layers and layers of knitwear. But, tonight, with coal heaters at the foot of their beds, courtesy of the house elves, Remus was snug and content, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this warm. His sleepy mind listened with a detached ease as he idly wondered what else his friends would get up to. Perhaps the astronomy tower, or maybe the lake—

He was slipping in and out of dreams and wakefulness, on the verge of dropping off completely when he heard the gentle click of the dorm room door opening and closing and the muffled steps of foot on marble. He took a deep breath, grateful for the ensuing silence, when Peter’s sigh cut through the quiet. 

He tried to ignore it, feigning sleep, wanting sleep.

Peter did it again, even louder. 

Remus opened his eyes in defeat. “Something wrong, Pete?” 

There was silence for a moment. “Why didn’t they ask us to come with?” Peter asked, sounding put out.

“Dunno. But, it’s freezing, mate, do you actually want to get out of bed?” Remus asked, askance, rubbing his feet together in the heat of the radiating coal burner. 

“It’s fun— when we all go out together.” He could hear Peter tossing and turning in his bed, the blankets being tossed about, the frame of the four poster creaking slightly.

“Go after them, I’m sure they haven’t reached the portrait yet.” Remus encouraged, not caring either way. He was _ not _ getting out of his blankets. His feet were so _ warm _. 

“If they wanted me to come they would have asked.” Peter said petulantly. Remus had seen slivers of this side of Peter, bits and flashes, carefully concealed over the last three terms, and he didn’t know what to make of it. Bitter and resentful when left out or teased, Peter seemed he could hold a grudge when he wanted to.

“Instead, you’re stuck here, in your nice warm bed.” Remus smiled to himself, pulling his blankets tighter around him, rocking slightly in a soothing manner, relishing the comfort of it, not quite understanding Peter’s fear and agitation. 

“Don’t you care?” Peter pressed, seemingly irritated with Remus lack of concern. 

“No, ” Remus answered without hesitation. “We go out often enough. Maybe they have stuff to chat about— alone.” 

“Why don’t we ever sneak out together? Without them, I mean.” 

Remus scoffed. “Why would we do that? We don’t have a cloak. Lily’s already on to us— no use in trying to get in more trouble.”

“Think we’d get caught without them?” Peter asked, an odd tone in his voice. 

“Yes.” Remus huffed. 

Peter grumbled something under his breath about always being left behind and Remus was struck with a sad thought— no one ever did ask Peter to come out unless it was all four of them. Remus had snuck out with Sirius plenty of times, with James a few, and with the two of them a fair amount, but never alone with Peter. 

But, it never bothered him when Sirius or James went off without them, Remus thought. He needed quiet nights alone in his bed, needed time to think things through, time to just be. He couldn’t fathom how Sirius or James could constantly be on the move, be together from dawn til dusk, and then through the night. 

No— he needed space alone, without his friends, and he always assumed they needed that from him as well. Needed silence. 

He thought of all the times Sirius had woken him in the night, wrapping his warm fingers around Remus’s cold ones, pulling him down into the kitchens or out to the lake or the quidditch pitch where they would share softer sides of themselves that they rarely saw in daylight. The nights James had pulled him aside and tossed the cloak over his head with a wink and led him through the castle grounds, talking endlessly about his loathing and rivalry with Lily— a rivalry that Remus was beginning to suspect ran much deeper well than James wanted to let on. 

Remus eventually drifted into a fitful sleep, troubled that no one thought to share those moments with Peter. 

______________

_ December 1, 1972 _

“Come on, Remus! You can go higher than that!” Sirius encouraged, clapping wildly. Cold winds whipped around them in the dull light of late morning, Remus’s hair flopping wildly onto his pale sweaty face as he strained against the magic in the broom beneath him. 

“No! I really cannot! I can’t believe I let you talk me into this—” He groused, laughing nervously, hovering only a few feet from the ground on Sirius’s broom. Sirius, who was standing just there with eyes fixed on Remus and arms outstretched, ready to catch him should he fall, giggled madly, as if this were the funniest thing he’d ever seen. His hair was tied back in a low bun but the wind had caught errant curls that floated on the winter air around his face. 

“_ Ouf _!” Peter, a few feet beside him, had lost control, again, wobbling madly, and fell clean off of James’s broom, landing on his backside. 

“Pete, mate, you’re a menace!” James said, helping him to his feet, yet again. “That’s the fourth time you’ve fallen off!” 

“One more time!” Peter insisted, clambering to his feet and throwing a leg over the broom, James steadying him. 

Remus stayed stationary, hovering, concentrating very hard on not falling or going any higher. His hands were sore from gripping the broom with white knuckles, and his butt hurt from sitting on such narrow wood, his thighs straining. 

“How do you stop it from killing your bullocks?” Remus huffed, awkwardly adjusting himself on the thin wood, refusing to release his vice grip from the handle. 

Sirius cackled so hard he toppled onto the ground, breathless with laughter, his hair coming undone completely, spread out, like some parody of a silk fan. 

James was giving Peter another pep talk on how to grip the handle and sit properly on the broom so that he could avoid any more injury, when Sirius finally picked himself up off the ground, wiping the mirth from his eyes, looking fondly between his doff friends on their brooms. 

“Can I come down now?” Remus asked, trying not to sound as scared as he was. 

“Of course, Mister Lupin, well done. You did a sight better than Peter, here.” He said, still smiling, tugging at Remus’s pant leg to pull him back down towards the earth, his hand reaching up to firmly grip Remus’s arm. “Though you could have actually _ flown _ somewhere— anywhere— other than hovering there like a frightened gnat.”

Remus scoffed but didn’t argue, he was trying to gingerly stretch his legs to meet the ground without wobbling too much. But, as his toes grazed the frosted grass of the quidditch pitch, Peter lost control of his broom— again. He swung wildly towards Remus, crashing bodily into his side, knocking them both off of their brooms, toppling them onto Sirius. James, in a frantic attempt to help, tripped on the fallen brooms and landed onto the dogpile, forcing piteous moans from all of them in unison. 

“_ Auuhg _!” Sirius groaned on impact, all the air in his lungs leaving him swiftly, the weight of his three friends squishing him into the earth. 

“_ Huuuuuh _ — Peter— get— _ off _—“ Remus breathed out a pained grimacing laugh, sandwiched between bodies, Sirius’s sharp elbow digging into his stomach. 

Laughing hysterically, James rolled off of the pile, pulling Peter with him. Finally, Remus managed to crawl away as Sirius burst out into hysterics again. 

Flailing and breathless with laughter on the frost covered ground, the cold blue sky above them, they didn’t hear approaching footsteps until a clipped voice cut through the crisp air. 

“Mister Lupin—”

Remus shot up, still panting with laughter, to see McGonagall standing there, wrapped in tartan shawl, a look of sadness and worry etched onto her face. His smile fell as he looked back at her, getting slowly to his feet. 

“Please come with me. It’s urgent.” She said, “The rest of you, carry on.”

He looked back at his friends with a confused and worried expression, seeing it reflected threefold back at him, no one knowing what to say. 

He walked forward and fell into step beside McGonagall, unable to articulate a single one of the thousand swirling questions ricocheting around his mind, feeling like he left his insides back on the grass in the pitch. 

______________

_ December 14, 1972 _

_ “Ain't no sunshine when she's gone _

_ It's not warm when she's away _

_ Ain't no sunshine when she's gone _

_ And she's always gone too long _

_ Anytime she goes away…” _

Remus could hear his mum’s record player echoing out across the snow covered yard, the tracks his feet had made that morning, partially melted and ice over in the intervening hours, carved through the patchy snow to the innocuous white door. His gut clenched unpleasantly as he approached, feeling stiff and icy under his layers of knitwear and a winter coat. Despite the cold, he wished he didn’t have to go inside.

“_ Wonder this time where she's gone _

_ Wonder if she's gone to stay _

_ Ain't no sunshine when she's gone _

_ And this house just ain't no home _

_ Anytime she goes away… _”

He wished he could have slept at the library. He nearly considered begging the librarian with her big brown eyes and frizzy hair if he could. She had always liked him. Always let him take books for longer than he was supposed to have them. Let him take extra. He’d been there nearly everyday since coming home, save for Sundays when it was closed. Those days, he’d wander the barren and desolate birch woods until he couldn’t feel his toes any longer. 

His chucks were worn thin and he could feel, distinctly, the frozen ridges of his previous footfalls underfoot as he trudged forward towards the house, feeling like his coat pockets were full of lead and stones, weighing him down, impeding his progress. When he finally climbed onto the stoop, he stood there, gloved hand resting on the brass knob, breathing heavy, cold lungfuls of winter air, knowing what he would find when he opened the door, and not wanting to face it. 

Hope’s funeral, over two weeks ago, now, had been lovely. Like some kind of beautiful nightmare— or horror filled dream that Remus couldn’t seem to wake up from. The audacity of time, crawling by, as if nothing had happened, as if Remus could just keep moving through each day with this pain, without simply ceasing to exist. 

Wreaths of poinsettias dotted with holly and pine cones had hung heavy in the church of the town where Remus’s gran lived, where Hope and Lyall had married. The tall stained glass windows, depicting the struggles of Jesus, cast dappled rainbows onto the closed casket of polished maple before the white pulpit. The pastor, an old man with a wavering voice, spoke in sombre tones about the preciousness of life, its precariousness, and what we must do to live it well. 

The church had been scarcely populated, and Remus wondered how someone as kind and strong as his mum could die so quietly, with so little fuss. Rows of pews dotted here and there with a sorrowful countenance did little to ameliorate the deep chasm of loss and emptiness swallowing Remus whole. 

Ethel, with her frizzy black hair, barely contained in ironed curls sat beside his gran with a small black veil and velvet dress suit. She wore bright blue eye shadow and her mascara hung in clumps on her eyelashes. Her red rouge did little to hide the pallor of her face. Thick eyeliner seeped into her powdery foundation, tracked with tears. His Gran sat beside him, older than she had ever looked, holding his scarred hand in her sweaty wrinkled palms. She had covered her short grey hair with a black cloche and wore a plain black dress beneath a grey woollen coat. 

His dad sat on his other side, in his ministry robes, staring blankly ahead, as if into a void, as if he weren’t even there. His hair, clumped and tangled, told the simple truth of his grief. Remus could smell the stale whiskey and ale emanating from him with every ragged breath. 

After the service, nameless, unfamiliar faces, shook hands with Remus and Lyall, offered sad smiles and a hugs for his Gran. Ethel wept and kept touching Remus’s cheek with her cold fingers. It reminded him of his mum and he had to resist wincing every time she did it. 

In the churchyard, the priest said a few more prayers which Remus couldn’t comprehend, watching as they lowered the shiny maple casket and wreath of poinsettias into the very neatly dug hole. The sky above them, grey and forlorn, the trees barren and tired, Remus had tossed a fistful of dead earth and a single sprig of holly into the grave before he was led away by his weeping gran. 

He shook the memory from his mind, his whole body shivering in the fading light of the evening, and finally pushed into the house, the bellowing gramophone making him grimace. In the dark sitting room, lace shades drawn, his dad sat on the sofa, legs wide and elbows resting heavily on his knees. His head hung low between crumpled shoulders, bearing the weight of his heartache and torment. His lank, unwashed hair hung even lower, in stringy curtains, before his deeply lined face. The low oak coffee table, covered in empty beer bottles and half burnt, unsmoked cigarettes, stood between them. 

Remus’s fingers had already found the scars on his chin and he prepared himself for his nightly routine. 

Lyall grumbled inarticulately when Remus plucked the cigarette from his gnarled hand and crushed the crumbling paper and embers in his mum’s crystal ashtray. In a practised move he placed his hand firmly on his dad’s shoulder, pushing him over. Groaning when his head thudded against the arm of the sofa, and when Remus lifted his legs onto the cushions, he didn’t resist. Remus pulled one of his mum’s afghans over Lyall’s prone form, before straightening up and leaning over to lift the needle off the record, unable to listen to the heartache anymore. 

He set about collecting the empty bottles in his arms, making trips to the kitchen sink where he deposited them. He would wash them in the morning before putting them in the bin, another new routine born of necessity, born of grief. 

Sweeping away all of the crushed cigarette butts, he swore under his breath, thumb rubbing consolingly over the place where one had burnt through the protective varnish, singeing the sturdy oak beneath it. 

Finally, reclaiming the sitting room into some semblance of normalcy, he walked into the kitchen to scratch around for something to eat. Finding nothing but a jar of Dijon mustard and half a box of saltines, his dinner from the last few nights, he retreated to his room. He methodically moved a stale cracker to his mouth, out of necessity, and tried not to think about the way it crumbled dryly in his mouth as he lifted a stack of worn envelopes out from under his pillow. 

James and Peter had been writing him quite consistently, but he hadn’t managed to respond to any of them since he had no owl— nor did he think he had the words to put to paper. Even Sirius had written him, almost daily, until Christmas break started, when the letters abruptly stopped. Sirius almost never wrote them when he was with his family and Remus wondered about it. Wondered about the waxing and waning of Sirius’s moods and tempers before holidays. 

Sirius was all big gestures and easy smiles, the first of their group to kiss a girl, and despite his egregious and exasperating behaviour, he was loved by all of the staff. He was contagiously self assured and just being near him gave Remus a heady combination of unearned confidence and buoyancy. But, Remus was an observant sort of bloke and he spent a lot of time watching Sirius, in his enigmatic and captivating ways— the oscillation between his blooming vibrancy and fallow melancholy. 

Remus saw how his eyes always lit up big and wide when Remus accidentally told a joke, something Sirius assured him, was always a shocking surprise. How he always seemed to climb higher and higher onto furniture the more agitated and vociferous he was during discussions or debates. The way he casually touched James, like a brother, always musing his hair and adjusting his glasses for him. 

But, Remus also saw that Sirius Black had layers of sadness beneath the veneer. How he sometimes retracted in startled fear when James or Peter touched him unexpectedly, or when McGonagall gave him his first tongue-lashing and his face had gone blank— totally empty. 

He had a sadness not dissimilar to his own, but not the same, either. He often saw a reflection of himself in Sirius, one that he worked hard to cover with boisterousness and charms. In the quiet moments between bouts of great enthusiasm and charisma, between the jaunty cheers and roguish winks, there were gathered storm clouds and turbulent seas. They often sat together in long stretches of silence, fighting their own secret battles beside one another. Finding comfort and strength in each other’s presence. 

Remus shuffled through the stacks of envelopes, chewing his third cracker, his mouth dry and unpleasant feeling, finding the letter his mum left him. The one with the bank account, the muggle savings she had set up for him— the scrap of notebook paper that simply read; 

_ Don’t tell your dad xx _

Tears stung his eyes, thick and hot and fast as anything, looking down at his mum’s looping scrawl. An odd combination of cursive and script, bubbly and wide, so unlike his own tight, illegible chicken scratch. He dropped the envelopes besides the jar of Dijon mustard and shook his hands, trying to dispel his discomfort in he felt in the tears and overwhelming ache of longing and nearly crippling sadness— feeling too many things course though his body. Like he was too tightly squeezed into his skin, like the moon was coming for him, calling him, just on the other side of the horizon. 

Remus didn’t know how long he stood there, breathing hard, trying not to think about anything, least of all, how the last time he had seen his mum alive she had danced with him on tired legs and given him a stack of sweaters to last him years to come. 

______________

_ December 19, 1972 _

Remus stepped through the whooshing green flames after tossing a fistful of floo powder and shouting “Hogwarts!” 

The swirling, keening, green tinted world of floo travel made him nauseous and he considered briefly how mad it was that anyone did this voluntarily. He was absolutely certain he was about to upchuck his morning apple just as he stumbled forward, coughing and grimacing onto Professor McGonagall’s hearthrug. 

“Careful, Mister Lupin, mind the soot—” came the curt Scottish accent, and a surprisingly strong hand on his bicep to steady him as he stumbled. 

When Remus finally straightened up, it was to see his professor, face full of worry lines and a shrewd expression surveying him closely. 

“Sorry, Professor.” He mumbled, awkwardly trying to pat his clothes clean of ash and soot, unsure what else to say after alarming her the way he did. 

“Please, take a seat.” She indicated to the chair before her desk. A stiff, straight backed chair with a red tartan velvet seat cover. “Tom said there was an emergency, Mister Lupin— I hadn’t anticipated you returning until term started again.”

He sank into the chair, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment. He felt oddly as if he wanted to cry and couldn’t meet his Professor’s gaze. 

Lyall had been gone from home since that Thursday night, five days ago, leaving Remus to unravel at the seams on his own— the full moon marching towards him as it always did. He had paced and wondered and worried and cried— uncertain how to get a hold of his father, uncertain where the Ministry of Magic was even located. He had no idea how to contact his friends or another adult without the help of magic. 

Eventually, unclear what else he could do, he had made the executive decision to go back to Hogwarts. He wasn’t sure if it was the right decision, or if he’d be able to get there, but he had to try. He couldn’t just sit and wait for the moon— couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t hurt anyone. He packed his trunk and figured Tom at the Leaky was nice enough, and perhaps he could point him in the right direction. 

He dragged his trunk all the way to London, told the kind and distressed Tom that he needed to get back to Hogwarts, that it was an emergency, and Tom had said, with wide eyes and a furrowed brow, “Oh, not to worry, young Mister Lupin, I’ll floo the school for you just now.” 

And he had. Within twenty minutes he was being chivvied through the fireplace, an elf popping into existence, as he was stepping into the flames, to collect his trunk. 

He still couldn’t look up from staring at the patch on his corduroy trousers, his thumb having found the scar beneath his chin, scabbed and sore, again. “The moon— my dad—” he croaked, his voice scratchy. He found his throat suddenly painfully tight. 

He took a deep breath, trying to regain some control, his fingers dancing restlessly across the skin on his face. “Since the funeral—” he tried again, the words falling away as his eyes stung suddenly with unbidden tears. 

“Remus, does your father know you’re here?” Professor McGonagall asked in a gentleness he hadn’t thought was possible. 

He shook his head, his vision blurry and his face hot. 

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Thursday night—” He mumbled. 

He heard a faint catch in McGonagall’s throat and she took a deep breath. Remus was worried she would be mad at him for showing up without his dad’s permission. 

“Have a biscuit.” She said, and Remus’s startled gaze looked up in time to see her shoving an open tin of biscuits across the desk. His stomach grumbled loudly as he carefully picked up a ginger crisp. 

“Have you eaten?” 

He shook his head again, unable to lie about it. He had subsisted on increasingly stale crackers and left over funeral casserole for over two weeks. He nibbled the biscuit as Professor McGonagall tapped her want onto her desk and a silver tray appeared, filled with slices of apple and peanut butter, a piece of chocolate cake, and a pile of mashed potatoes with peas. 

He marvelled at how the houselves seemed to know what he wanted, what he needed. Something simple and comforting, familiar and not too heavy. And, he suddenly ached with missing Sirius at the sight of the food. With missing James and Peter. Of wanting his friends with him in his moments of weakness. 

He ate his dinner in silence as McGonagall wrote a letter, her glasses perched precariously on the end of her severe nose as her hand moved fluidly across the page. He found her silent companionship healing, like a balm on a wound he didn’t realise he had. When he ate as much as he could, for the mash potatoes kept replenishing themselves, he pushed the plate away, uncomfortably full and exhausted.

McGonagall looked up, watching him closely, almost fondly. “Before you go up to the dorms, I want you to stop by the hospital wing. Poppy will have some potions for you. The password is _ ad meliora _.”

Madam Pomfrey had given him three potions. Two he took there, in the hospital wing, and the other, she told him to take once he had gotten into bed. 

Up in the dorm, his trunk at the foot of his bed, he pulled on his yellow pyjama bottoms and a roll of parchment from his bag. His hand was steadier than it had been in weeks and he put quill to paper; 

_ Thank you for the letters. Mum died. I’m sure you guessed already, though. The funeral was nice, gran picked pretty flowers for it. I came back to school for the rest of the holiday. Dad’s not well, but I’m not sure if I am either. Hope you’re having a good Christmas. _

_ \- RJL _

He tapped the parchment, replicating it three times, and set it aside to send off in the morning. 

After climbing under the covers, he uncapped and drank the potion from Pomfrey in one go, immediately feeling sleepy and warm and content. He lay in his four poster, listening to the sounds of owls hooting in the night, and, alone though he was, he was grateful to be home. 

______________

_ January 22, 1973 _

The great hall buzzed with the low rumble of early rising students gathering at their tables, leisurely enjoying the Houselves’ Monday offering of porridge and fruit, kippers and bacon, eggs and toast. 

Remus sat in his faded argyle sweater, the grey one with forest green, worn elbows on the table and his hands folded on his chin as his thumb scraped mindlessly at the healing scab on the corner of his jaw. It hurt, still, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. His ankles were crossed below the hard bench and he stared down at his empty plate, his thumb restless, the scab coming away.

He’d been the first to rise that morning, no hint of the coming sun yet on the horizon, only the stars and waning moon shining in through the window beside his four poster, lighting the way as he dressed silently, carefully, not wanting to rouse the others. Not wanting to speak to anyone.

He had been the first to seat himself at the Gryffindor table, putting a single croissant on the plate in the still dim hall, the candles lit above him and a few flaming torches in their brackets casting a warm glow. His thoughts swirled around him and his stomach growled a low rumble, the ache in him gnawing. 

He stared down blankly at his still-untouched croissant, his fingers now moving to brush idly against another stubbornly slow healing scar on the back of his right hand. It was a nasty one, deep, puckered, the skin around the gnarled tissue was tight and itchy. It trailed up his wrist and wrapped around his forearm. It was pinched and raised in places, numb and tingly in others. They were getting worse. He was getting worse.

Students slowly began to file in around him, some still in pyjamas, greeting one another sleepily. The sound of scraping silverware and plates began to grow around him and the chatter in the hall rose steadily. Still, Remus stared at his plate.

He wondered what to do. 

The others, they were getting suspicious. Worried. They saw his new cuts, every glaring gash— when they came back from the holidays, James insisted on sleeping in Remus’s bed with him, much to Remus’s confusion and chagrin. But James was a warm sleeper and after two nights he couldn’t deny that his presence was a huge comfort. But, it had raised more questions— James asked where he was getting his scars, why he was so thin and cold all the time and Remus didn’t have any answers, especially when Sirius and Peter stilled to listen, wanting to hear _ why _Remus was the way he was. 

He was a terrible liar, he knew, and he could see, when he left the dorms on Thursday for the full moon, that they knew something else was going on. 

He could see them gearing up to push for answers— but, he never gave them a chance. He came to bed late and rose early— and had avoided his friends the entire weekend, making up excuses and running off at the first moment. 

He could hear them approach before he felt the familiar hand on his shoulder, jostling him from his spiralling thoughts, his macabre mulling, the dread piling up around him like stones, heavy in his pockets. 

“Mornin’ Remus.” James said, a jaunty smile on his face, his hair tousled and falling over his hazel eyes, sitting down beside him.

“Morning.” He said with a tired smile that didn't reach his eyes, his heart thudding harder than it needed to, trying to sound more chipper than he felt. 

Sirius and Peter sat across from them, bickering, as they did, about the best way to embarrass Severus in their next lesson. 

“I say we hex his ears to grow— that's always a good one. Remember when it happened to Marlene? It was brilliant.” Insisted Peter, his face alight with pleasure at the memory. Remus cringed internally, Marlene had cried for hours after that particular incident.

“Peter— what kind of an amateur do you think I am? An ear hex? He called me a blood traitor— what does he even know about it? He’s a halfblood!”

“I thought we settled on the bat bogey—” James tried, sounding exasperated, reaching out to dish himself muesli and yoghurt. 

Sirius spluttered indignantly, his haughty features twisted in defiance. The bickering continued around him, but Remus wasn't listening, he let it wash over him as he continued to stare down at his plate, thinking about how he could escape before they began questioning him again. 

He pulled the worn sleeves of his sweater down to hide the backs of his hands. 

“You alright, Remus?” He heard Peter through the cloud of his own panicked misery. When he looked up James and Peter were regarding him with expressions of concern. Sirius was sitting rigidly on the bench, like an attack dog, his eyes following the progress of a figure somewhere behind Remus.

“Fine— yes. I'm great. Why?” He asked, turning to see what Sirius was glaring at, catching Severus walking past, chatting with Lily. 

“I’ve only been calling your name for a whole minute now—” Peter said, his brows furrowed.

“Hey, Snivellus! Wash your hair, you grease ball!” Sirius’s sharp voice cut across the great hall, a few scattered laughs broke out from students still eating. Remus watched Severus giving Sirius a very rude hand gesture from the other side of the Slytherin table, Evans grabbing his arm to drag him away towards the entrance hall, red hair gleaming in the torchlight. 

“Say that to my face, you coward!” He shouted back, fighting against Lily’s grasp. 

“I’m the coward?!” Sirius shouted, contemptuously, practically standing on the bench in his effort to heckle Snape. “You’re the one using your Gryffindor girlfriend as a shield!”

But James wouldn’t be distracted by Sirius’s antics in the face of a friend he thought to be in need. “Did you sleep okay? Are you getting sick again?” James asked, reaching a hand out to feel Remus’ forehead, making Remus flinch reflexively. “We’ve barely seen you since Madam Pomfrey let you out on Friday—” 

“I'm fine. Just tired.” Remus said quickly, standing suddenly, knocking his knee painfully against the wooden bench in his haste to extricate himself. “Sorry— forgot something in the tower.”

“Remus, wait.”

He heard Peter’s soft and worried tone trail after him as he practically fled the great hall. He moved swiftly past Snape and Evans, who were bickering in the entrance hall, not rising to the bait they always threw his way, not daring to look back.

______________

Remus had ensconced himself in the library behind a towering stack of books, skipping his lessons for the day, too overcome with fear and worry to face anyone. 

His limbs were heavy and his head felt light and empty as his stomach gurgled in protest of its lack of contents. Remus sighed heavily, his quill flying across the parchment in front of him as he scratched out his History of Magic report on the 1877 ban on werewolves in the public sector, the startlingly pink scars of his hand catching the glow of the lamps and candles around him. 

The mullion windows had long since darkened with the descending night and he knew Madam Pince would be making the rounds soon to chivy off the younger students. He wanted to eek out every last minute he could before facing anyone again. His hand cramped and he winced, a scab by his eye pulling uncomfortably.

He’d managed to stay hidden the entire day, ducking behind a suit of armour as well as two tapestries, in an effort to avoid Sirius and James. Peter had almost stumbled upon him in his alcove of the library before he could slip under the table, and he had overheard Marlene and Dorcas talking about him on the other side of a book shelf when he got up to look for a copy of _ Lunar Roadmaps and Starguides _ . 

“I don’t know,” Marlene whispered. “James wouldn’t say. Peter said he was sick. But he’s always sick, isn’t he?”

“Sirius said he spilled draught of living death on him in potions during detention.”

“That makes sense, he _ is _ rather clumsy.” she nodded wisely. 

Remus didn’t want to think too hard about the tight squeeze in his chest at the thought of his friends defending him, even when they knew he was lying. Becoming more and more distant with each full moon. He knew it was only a matter of time before they realised he was a monster and couldn’t be trusted. His stomach growled again and his nails bit into his palm. 

Madam Pince’s sharp voice cut through his ruminating, and he jumped. “It’s past eight! You ought to be in your common room. Get along now! Don’t make me report you to Filch!”

_ Bugger. _ He thought, “Sorry, I’m going!” He muttered, standing too quickly and spilling his ink bottle on the parchment he had spent hours covering in barely legible handwriting. He groaned as Madam Pince yelped, scandalised. 

Hastily taking his wand out, he tried to clear the ink, but had clearly stood too fast, for his vision was suddenly cloudy and dark around the edges. His limbs felt tingly and his lips were numb. 

“_ Scourgify _,” He tried, but there was a ringing in his ears and his magic didn’t come forward. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but that only made it worse. 

“Mister Lupin!” He heard Madam Pince from what sounded like a great distance as he muttered, “_ scourgify _,” again, his voice wavering, his stomach lurching, before everything went dark. 

His head was spinning and his body was heavy as he became aware of a shuffling nearby. The darkened hospital wing smelled like antiseptic spells and lavender and he stifled a groan. 

The shuffling grew closer to his bed and he cracked his eyes open. It must have been late, he reasoned, but if he knew Madam Pomfrey, she would be beside his bed within moments. 

As if hearing his thoughts, he heard her office door open and close with a click and a snap and her shoes marching diligently towards him. The shuffling nearby had stopped suddenly, and Remus opened his eyes fully in time to see the curtained hangings pulled back. 

“Ah, Mister Lupin, awake at last.” She said, a worried smile on her face. 

He nodded, finding it hard to look at her. 

“Do you know why you’re here?” She asked. 

“I— I think— I got sick in the library.” he muttered. 

“Sick?” She asked, eyebrows raised in disapproval. “Starved half to death is what I’d call it.”

He brought his hands together on his lap and began stroking his irritated scabs with his thumb in a soothing repetition. 

“When was the last time you ate anything properly?”

“This morning,” he lied, “I got distracted with all my homework. I forgot to go to lunch.”

“And dinner?”

Remus didn’t say anything. 

Madam Pomfrey sighed, the worry lines around her eyes even more pronounced. She moved to bustle around the tray beside the bed, pouring a measure of bright purple liquid. She handed it to him before turning away and pouring three more potions into separate goblets. 

“Drink up.” She instructed, her voice falsely cheery. 

“What is it?” He asked, regarding it with suspicion, it wasn’t one he recognised, but, it smelled absolutely _ delicious _ , like all of his favourite foods rolled into one magical beverage. His stomach gurgled painfully and he really _ felt _his hunger for the first time in days. Without waiting for a response he drank it. 

It did was positively revolting and he gagged around the last gulp. 

Sputtering and grimacing he handed the cup back to Madam Pomfrey, scandalised, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What _ was _ that?” He demanded, aghast. It smelled so _ good _but tasted like what he imagined fermented dirty socks to taste like. 

“That, Mister Lupin, was a re-feeding potion. I hope you remember the taste next time you think about skipping meals.”

Remus shuddered, feeling slightly nauseous and repulsed that she would give him something so vile.

“Here,” she handed him a familiar yellow potion. He drank it quickly, knowing the lemony taste of the electrolyte solution would help wash the remnants of sweaty undergarments from his mouth. 

She examined his healing scars on the back of his hands and the one behind his ear. She gave him two more potions before telling him he was to stay the night in the hospital wing and he could leave in the morning if he ate his breakfast to her satisfaction.

He nodded numbly, anxiety and nausea burning in his stomach. 

He knew it was wrong that he didn’t eat. It wasn’t normal, fine, sure. But he _ liked _ the feeling of being empty. The first pangs of hunger were painful, yeah, but after a while they dulled, leaving him light and sleepy. The buzzing in his limbs and head felt better than the terror and worry he constantly felt otherwise. Worry that he’d be discovered. Terror that he’d be thrown out, abandoned. Alone. 

After Madam Pomfrey finished her exam and watched him down the last of his potions, she bid him a good night and retreated to her office. Ensconced in the quiet hospital wing, behind the beige curtains, Remus laid back and stared at the high ceiling. His stomach was bloated and leadened feeling, and he felt heavy in a way that made him grimace and daydream about skipping breakfast.

He sighed. Another slight shuffling noise from beyond the curtain had him turning his head, eyebrows furrowed. 

More shuffling, closer now. The scuff of a foot on a side table and a muttered curse in an irritated voice. The curtain moved as if someone were walking through it, but Remus couldn’t see anyone. 

Sirius appeared very suddenly before him, disheveled, with James’s invisibility cloak cascading through his hands. His hair looked uncharacteristically wild, as though he’d crawled through some underbrush, and his face was flush with sweat and some strange combination of what looked like defiance and worry, all the while a haughty smile gracing his features. 

“Sirius?” Remus croaked. “What are you _ doing _ here?” He whispered, panic filling him. 

“I— we were worried.” He said, shrugging with a feigned air of nonchalance that was entirely undermined by his haphazard appearance, as he tried to smooth his hair and lean casually against the medicine cupboard. 

Remus mouthed silently, shaking his head. He was trapped. “There’s _ nothing _ to be worried about.”

“Remus, cut the crap, whatever’s happening is getting worse. We’re your friends and we’re allowed to be worried.”

“I was busy playing catch up, I was sick— I was just in the library working.”

“You were _ sick _.” Sirius repeated, not a question, a challenge. The look of fiery determination lighting up his face, the mask of nonchalance slipping. 

“Yes.”

“What was it this time? _ Hmm? _ Spattergroit? Or maybe— _ maybe _ , you lost your legs and had to regrow them? Or maybe _ this time _ , your grandmother turned into an octopus and you had to go help your dad rescue her from a swamp— Were you kidnapped by some secret dark order and _ tortured _?“

Remus felt his face burn with anger and embarrassment. 

“Why are you always covered in scars, Remus?” He demanded. “Why won’t you tell us what’s happening to you?”

“Sirius—” his voice was low and scared. He was filled with fear that Madam Pomfrey would be able to hear the angry ranting. 

“I thought we were friends, Remus!”

“I can’t tell you—” Remus bit back in a whisper, hands coming up to press fingers into his eyes. “I can’t tell _ anyone _ . It’s not _ safe _.”

“Why not?” Sirius asked, his voice breaking. It was morphing quickly from the defiant anger that Remus was so used to, to a near pleading desperation. There was a vulnerability there that Remus hadn’t expected. Didn’t know what to do with. 

Sirius came right up to the side of the bed and sat on a low stool, looking up into Remus’s face as he dropped his hands into his lap. Sirius’s eyes were imploring. This was so unlike the brazen confidence and cool affect Remus was so accustomed to, the general aloofness and drawling tones, the affect of a much older man on such a small boy, disarming and alarming all at once. 

He had expected the anger, the righteous fury, but he’d never expected to see Sirius so worried, so hurt, so soft.

“I can’t tell you Sirius. I just can’t. You’d never forgive me— James and Peter— I just— it’s not _ safe _ — _ I’m _ not safe.“

“I won’t tell them, I swear.” He offered, with a hushed voice, his hand restless at the hem of the blanket. He now looked every bit the scared thirteen year old he was. Scared for his friend, scared of being left alone, left behind. 

Remus glanced at him, torn. Sirius and James were practically brothers. They shared everything. Sirius wouldn't possibly keep this a secret when he found out.

“Remus, I— please— I swear on— on—” Sirius cast around looking for something he loved enough to swear to, his fingers grasping at thin air. He sighed, dropping his hands, his shoulders drooping in defeat. He looked down at Remus’s scarred hand on the sheet before him. “I swear Remus. I’d never betray you. Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you— I just—” Remus’s voice cracked again and his walls were crumbling. His face felt hot and his eyes stung and he couldn’t look at his usually confident friend looking so dejected and hurt. 

“I just know you won’t trust me when you find out.” He whispered, trying hard to keep his voice level. 

Sirius’s eyes shot up and surveyed his face closely. “We’re Gryffindors, aren’t we?” He finally asked. 

“Yeah?” 

“We’re supposed to protect our own and be _ brave _.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“Then what kind of a Gryffindor would I be if I scarpered? What do you take me for? A _ Slytherin? _” He sounded angry again, and Remus cracked a weak smile at the familiarity of it. 

“Be _ brave _ Remus.” Sirius said, his voice dropping once more, a challenge and a comfort. 

Remus sighed, knowing the battle was lost. He had never been able to refuse Sirius anything. He had never been able to tell him no. Never really wanted to. 

“How often am I gone?” He asked quietly, not looking at Sirius, who scoffed.

“Just about every few weeks, nearly.” He said incredulously. “I’ve never met anyone who gets as sick as you— and I know some of it was your mum, but— where do you keep getting all these scars from? Whose _ doing _ this to you? You can tell me, Remus, I can help.”

“You can’t help me, Sirius. It’s a _ condition _.” He said raising his hand to press into his eyes again, drawing his other arm across his chest, protecting himself. 

“What condition causes you to go missing all the time and come back looking like you’ve lost a fight with a hippogriff!”

“Not a hippogriff,” Remus said weakly, “a wolf.”

“I—” Sirius froze and fell silent, his disbelieving tirade dying on his lips as he stared wide-eyed at Remus.

Remus who sat perfectly still, nausea rolling through him and his whole body shaking with fear. 

The seconds seem to drag on as Sirius pieced his words together, the gears turning rapidly behind the deep brown eyes. 

“A wolf…” He whispered. “Remus— you’re a— a—”

“A werewolf...” He stated, closing his eyes tight, unable to face Sirius in his admission, in his weakness. He pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his face. 

He heard a creak and saw movement out of the corner of his eye and he was sure, convinced, Sirius was rising to flee. To escape the dangers of associating with a monster. He was certain that Sirius would run to tell the whole school about it and he’d be expelled. 

Instead, he felt the bed dip, and arms, strong from quidditch, wrapping awkwardly around his boney shoulders. 

“I won’t tell anyone, Remus.” He whispered in his ear. “You’re still my best mate— no matter what. You can stop hiding from us, now, you plonker.” His voice wavered but he was trying robustly to sound business like. 

Remus let out a choked sob, and in a moment of further weakness he reciprocated the hug, clinging to Sirius and crying into his shoulder. Fear and relief flooding through him.

Sirius clumsily patted his back, whispering things to try to calm and reassure him, clearly uncertain what in Godric’s name to do with a sobbing Remus.

Finally, he collected himself and they separated abruptly and completely— suddenly both very overcome with embarrassment, not making eye contact. 

“I thought James was your best mate?” Remus asked, trying to get back to a normal place between them, as he wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve.

“I can have more than one.” Sirius said, defiant, surreptitiously wiping his own eyes. 

“You better get back to the dorms before Madam Pomfrey finds you.” Remus said, in lieu of a response.

“I can stay a little longer.” then, uncertainly, “will you tell me about it?” 

Remus sighed and slowly nodded, unable, yet again, to say no to Sirius. 

Hours later, after endless whispered inquiry, Sirius sat on the low stool, shivering, having forgotten his shoes and jersey, James’s invisibility cloak doing little to warm his small frame. Remus had lifted the edge of his blanket and indicated for Sirius to climb underneath while he talked about Greyback and how he was still on the run from the Ministry all these years later. 

Sirius had gaped in conflicted confusion, eyes flicking from the lifted blanket to Remus. 

“I can’t— why would I—” He sputtered as Remus flapped the corner of the blanket more insistently and moved over to the other side of the bed as far as he could. 

“Just get in, Sirius, you’re cold, for the love of _ Merlin _, haven’t you ever had a sleepover? You’ve fallen asleep in my bed before.”

“A sleep— _ what _?” 

It was Remus’s turn to raise skeptical eyebrows, his flapping hand stilling. “A sleepover— where someone comes over and sleeps at your house. You know, like how James kept sleeping in my bed at the start of term. Didn’t you ever have friends sleep over when you were little?”

“Oh— I mean—” Sirius sputtered, looking disproportionately embarrassed and inappropriately flustered for what Remus considered to be a simple and innocuous question. “Well, yeah— I’ve had _ cousins _ sleep over— family friends, _ sometimes _ — But we don’t _ share beds _— we’re not supposed to— that’s what guest rooms are for.”

Remus shrugged. “I always did. Not that I’ve had many friends since— well, you know.”

Sirius looked like he was carefully calculating something as he studied Remus’s face in the dark. Coming to a conclusion, he very gingerly tiptoed over to the bed and pulled himself up. He laid awkwardly on his side, facing Remus, and pulled the blankets to cover himself, oddly shy and embarrassed. 

“As I was saying—” Remus continued as if the strange interlude never happened. It was a long while before the tension in Sirius’s shoulders bled away and he spoke again with his easy manner and quick smiles. Remus was careful not to touch Sirius, sensing his inexperience and nervousness around such plebeian concepts as sleepovers. 

When Remus was finished telling his stories, about Greyback and his father, about the transformations and the shrieking shack, about the whomping willow and Dumbledore, about Madam Pomfrey and his scars, Sirius started to talk. He told Remus about Walburga and Orion, about his brother Regulus. He spoke about how he knew his parents were wrong and bad— finally showing Remus some of his own scars and how he got them— a group of them long and thin left along the side of his right butt cheek that Remus had wondered about since the year prior— left, it seems, by parents who couldn’t love their children. 

“They always drink in the evening with dinner.” Sirius said matter of factly. “Sometimes it’s not so bad, and we go to our room and play exploding snap and they argue downstairs. But sometimes—” He faltered, staring hard at the patch of mattress between them. 

“Sometimes?” Remus asked. 

“Sometimes she comes upstairs. That’s how I got these.” He sat up and turned, exposing a strip of back to Remus, showing a scar, a poorly healed burn the size of Remus’s hand just beside his spine above one of his back dimples. “She wanted to go after Regulus for leaving his broomstick downstairs, and I told her it was me—”

Remus gingerly touched the raised and welted scar with his index finger as Sirius had done to the one on the back of his hand. 

Sirius turned back around and snuggled himself back down in the bed, looking happier and more peaceful than Remus thought the story warranted. 

“See?” Sirius asked, a smile playing on his face. “We both have scars.”

Remus had smiled tentatively. 

Eventually, they both drifted off to sleep. 

“Mister Black! What in _ Merlin’s _ name!” Madam Pomfrey’s shrill and disbelieving voice echoed around the hospital wing and Sirius startled so violently he fell clean out of the bed and onto the hard floor. “This is _ unacceptable _!” 

“We were just having a sleepover!” Sirius yelped in defence as he hit the ground, his silky hair in a chaotic mess and his haughty features twisted in startled fear. 

“Well— I never— _ unbelievable _— I’m calling for McGonagall!” She muttered mutinously as she set a breakfast tray down hard next to Remus’s bed. 

“We were just worried about him Poppy! He’s always sick!” Sirius said, getting to his feet and slyly kicking the invisibility cloak behind him. 

Seemingly against her will, Madam Pomfrey’s face went soft and motherly as she gazed between the two boys. “Be that as it may, Mister Black, there’s no excuse for you to be out of your dorm at night. Now, you can see Mister Lupin after breakfast, please go get yourself ready for the day.”

Remus rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as Sirius dashed towards the door, the cloak under his arm, somehow missing one sock. 

And, despite her many threats, it appears Madam Pomfrey did not tell McGonagall about the infirmary sleepover. 

“But you’re not leaving until that porridge is finished Mister Lupin.” She had said, blocking his way from the bed, as Remus tried to escape the hospital wing and get ready for class. 

“I had half of it!” He whined, pleading, feeling antsy and anxious and wanting to leave. 

“I’ll make you a deal.” She said, kindly, and Remus already didn’t like it. 

“Oh no.” He whinged. 

“Oh yes.” She smiled. “You can either finish your porridge, or have half of a dose of the re-feeding potion.”

Remus groaned and stalked back to the bed to finish his porridge. 

He had barely cleared the hospital doors when he was ambushed. Strong little hands gripped his arms and a silky cloak had been tossed over his head, obscuring him from view. James clapped a hand over his mouth as he tried to let out a startled yelp and whispered, “Remus, this is an intervention. We love you, and you’re coming with us.”

Remus tried to protest but he was too startled to do more than gawk awkwardly and be nearly carried by James and Peter down the hall. 

His two friends pulled him into an empty classroom. Sirius was there, pacing madly back and forth with a look of intense consternation. When the door was closed behind them, James yanked the cloak from them and pointed an accusatory finger at Remus. 

“_ You _.” He said imperiously. “You’re not running off until we know what’s happening to you! We’re worried half to death and you’re always missing or in the hospital wing and you look nearly dead! What is happening with these scars!”

Remus sputtered a bit, his eyes darting between the three of his friends. Peter and James with wide worried eyes, Sirius looking pleading and apologetic. 

“Sirius didn’t tell you?” He squeaked in disbelief when he found his voice. 

“Of course not!” Sirius yelled, offended. 

“You know?!” James turned a scandalised expression onto his best mate and gaped towards Peter. 

Peter shrugged and shook his head, looking bewildered. 

“What the hell, guys!” James yelled looking between the three of them. “I thought we were supposed to be mates and help each other! We’re Gryffindors, aren’t we?”

“I can’t.” Remus tried.

“Don’t you start!” James said, wagging his finger at him again. “You hardly eat and you’re covered in injuries, and we want to _ help _ . Why can’t we help? Don’t you _ trust _ us?”

Remus felt his eyes sting and he couldn’t bear to look at them anymore. He turned away, rubbing his eyes. 

He startled when he felt Sirius’s hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to say anything— we’re still here for you even if you don’t say.”

James sighed heavily and Peter tutted loudly. 

“Right, _ James _?” Sirius asked, pointedly. 

“Easy for you to say, you already know—”

“_ James _—”

“Yeah, yeah— alright, fine. _ Whatever _.” He sighed, again, sounding put out. “Of course you don’t have to tell us, Remus. We just want to help.”

Remus took a deep breath and his body ached with fear. He felt unsteady on his own legs. Turning his head fractionally to Sirius, he whispered, “Just tell them— please.”

They were all quiet for a moment. Sirius gripped his shoulder. “Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“Remus is a—” Sirius took a deep breath and turned to the others, “well, he’s a werewolf.”

There was a deafening silence before Peter spoke suddenly, a baffled lilt to his voice. “Wait— didn’t you all know that already?”

All three of them spun around to face Peter, who had a bemused look on his round freckled face. 

“You _ knew _?” Remus sputtered. 

“Of course I knew— I thought we all knew and were just being polite by not mentioning it— I thought— I thought we were here to talk to you about how little you _ eat _ — I thought this was a _ food _ intervention!”

“That’s an intervention for another day,” Sirius said, wisely, shooting Remus a hard look. 

“Unbelievable.” James muttered, turning to pace dramatic circles around the classroom. “_ Unbelievable _!”

“How could you have _ possibly _ known?” Remus asked, shocked. 

“Everybody knows the story of Lyall Lupin’s kid and Greyback— or at least, I thought they knew? Mom told me all about it when I was a kid, when it happened— she was friends with your neighbour— sorry mate—” he shrugged apologetically. “I just never thought it was polite conversation.”

All three of them gaped at Peter. 

“Could have said something, mate!” Sirius stammered.

“It wasn’t my story to tell.” He shrugged again, and Remus felt a well of appreciation. 

“Okay— wait— so, Remus— mate—” James started, turning his attention back to Remus, who stood dumbly, feeling very self conscious of his scars, of his body, of his entire existence, “you’re a werewolf?” 

He nodded again. 

James rushed forward, flinging his arms around him and hugging him tightly. He groaned and shook Remus, squeezing him, grunting, “Why— didn’t— you— just— _ tell us? UUUUUGH—” _

Peter and Sirius were quick to follow. Squeezing and shaking and yelling and rejoicing in their friend and finally having answers. Remus was so overwhelmed and paralysed by the acceptance that he could do nothing but allow himself to be squished and shaken. 

Soon, the bell for first lesson rang. 

“_ Bugger _.” Peter muttered. “Remus I brought you a muffin.” He said, shoving it into Remus’s hands from an inner pocket of his school robes. “We better go before McGonagall transfigures us into dung beetles.”

“She would never, Minnie loves me.” Sirius said confidently, dashing towards the door. 

“Remus, you better be back in the dorm tonight!” James beamed as he dragged Remus out of the class by the wrist after Sirius, Peter trailing closely behind. 


	7. Ishtar Rites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised: 
> 
> Chapter contains discussions of rape, child sexual abuse, indoctrination, drug use, Absinthe related hallucinations, and the use of the imperius curse for sexual control of muggles, misogyny/misogynoir.

The moon became something new after that. Something bright and luminous and exciting, that appeared and disappeared on the horizon above the forbidden forest, a cradle or a nearly full orb, rising and falling gently across the star-strewn sky. 

The lunar cycle became a new calendar, a new way to track time, to plot their misdeeds and kitchen raids, a light across the dark grounds in its fullness, or just as much cover as the cloak on the darkest of its newness. 

The moon became their guide, and Sirius felt himself wax and wane with it. Wax and wane with Remus, who had fallen into his friends knowing about his condition with all the fumbling, frantic grace a wolf could muster. They all became so aware, so accustomed, to watching him eat as the moon diminished in the sky, then lapse into sullen and apathetic fasting as it grew again, bright and unapologetic in it’s cycle. 

They became aware of how he seemed to taughten as the fullness came, tight and wiry and fidgeting. They became aware, and they adjusted. And they knocked his hand away as he picked endlessly at the errant threads of sweaters. The helped him not unravel them, as tempting as it was, for there was no one left to knit them together again. They kept him from coming undone.

Sirius began taking Remus for walks on the grounds in the evenings that heralded the brighter night sky. Walks where they would skirt the lake and Sirius would sing odes to the giant squid, or else dip beneath the towering trees that edged the great forest beyond, where they’d pretend to track the unicorn herds. They’d push great ferns aside and the dew of spring would shower over them, and it would be bright and fresh and green. And they’d both feel so much safer there, in the vastness of the unknown. In the lushness of it. 

They’d talk about classes, sometimes quidditch. Sirius spent a whole afternoon griping about potions in mid-April. They were laying back in a copse of birch trees, Sirius picking apart one of the rolls of bark that had long since fallen away from it’s tree, mixing with many others that littered the soft forest floor. He shredded it into strips, and it sprung back into the curve of the trunk it still remembered. 

“Slughorn favours you though, Sirius. He does.” Remus had said, seeming to furrow his brow and not quite understand why Sirius would be so reluctant to accept the good graces of their corpulent potions professor, who had so jovially declared in mock amusement at the lovely azure tones of Sirius’s calming draught. Remus shredded his own roll of birch bark between prematurely gnarled and scarred hands. His calming draught had been maroon and smelled of bad eggs. 

“He favours me because I am a Black, Remus, not because I’m worth anything outside my name.” Sirius was minorly rubbish at potions. Not as bad at it as Peter was, true, or even many others who fumbled and dithered about in the putrid clouds of steam they had created. Not even as bad as Remus, if he was honest, though the calming draught was a cruel assignment for the day before the moon. 

No, but he wasn’t brilliant and he certainly didn’t deserve the praise Slughorn lavished on him. He could even admit he wasn’t as good as Snape, nor Lily, or even James, and, of them all, only James seemed to get the big laughs and accolades Sirius often received in the dungeon classroom. No, unlike Snape and Lily, these were a gift of his pedigree (and James’s, as his father was some famous hair product potioneer), and it always made Sirius feel as though something slithered beneath his skin, something dirty and cruel and that felt, so very hauntingly, as it did when his mother looked at him. 

“Every time he fawns over something I’ve made, it’s as if he’s fawning over the Blacks. It’s strange, Remus. You wouldn’t understand, but Slughorn is a sacred twenty eight. I can’t trust him.” Sirius thought of the times that he had seen Eugene Slughorn, the elder of the two brothers, at events and parties, and the way he sucked on the bones of pheasants and tipped back enough elf made wine to make his words thick. Thick and slurred enough that he would tell jokes about muggle borns and expect them all to laugh. And they would, because Eugene Slughorn sat on the wizengamot and headed the department of experimental charms.

“What do you mean trust him? What do you have to trust him about? And what the bloody hell is the sacred twenty eight?” 

“Forget it, Remus.” Sirius scraped his toe along a line of pretty, soft moss on the roots of an errant elm between the birch trees, the one he had chosen to lean his back against. It felt right, the dark bark and the cradling roots, nothing like the stick straight white trees that seemed to lend the forest light, not soak it up. 

“Sirius.” Remus looked up at him and tossed a bit of birch bark at his head. “Come on, can’t you tell me? Take pity, I was basically raised a muggle.” Remus got up from his spot beneath a very spindly tree to sit in front of Sirius beneath the crown of the lone elm. 

Sirius closed his eyes a moment and leaned back, breathing in the soft smells of the forest. The fresh grass, bent by their movements, the moss that still held so much water from the last rains, the elm itself, sturdy and steady. He could hear the bowtruckles above fighting over the best bough for woodlice hunting and the soft magic of the tree, deep and steady. It seemed to wrap around him, his body snug between roots, his spine against the bark. He rubbed a smoothed pebble between his fingers. 

Elm wood, in wands, was highly prized among purebloods. Sirius sighed the thought away and felt the magic of the tree behind him. Gentle. Sure. Not a twinge of cruelty. He wondered if Remus would feel the same quiet grace, or perhaps disdain? Or nothing at all? 

“The sacred twenty eight are a list of twenty eight pureblood families. They’re sort of the core of pureblood culture, old wizarding families that have amassed power and influence over the centuries, always making sure their blood remains as magical as possible. The keepers of all the old ways. You know, traditions, holidays, businesses even. And many of the old families are deep in politics. They’re all throughout the wizengamot.” He opened his eyes to look at Remus, who’s dirty blonde hair was getting long and often hung above his eyes. Remus looked politely interested. Blasé, even. Sort of like he had expected something like this. A wizarding elite. Gatekeepers of the magical world. 

Sirius sighed a moment and considered the boy before him. Of course he imagined there were gatekeepers of magic. That had been his whole experience. He was a werewolf, after all, already an outcast, above and beyond being raised in the muggle world, a half blood. He considered him a moment, his too long hair and his freckles. And his scars. 

“That doesn’t sound so bad, though? I’d love to know more about old wizarding culture and all the strange things you seem to get up to. Stuff I don’t know anything about. Like how you already knew so much magic. And history of magic! You’re like an encyclopaedia of that stuff.” Remus was braiding blades of grass now, sitting across from Sirius’s dragonhide boots, his own dirty sneakers full of frayed fabric and the threat of holes. 

“They have a lot of power in the wizarding world, Remus.” They, not him. He never felt powerful. No, not powerful. 

At their mercy. That’s how he felt. Maybe more so than Remus did. Which made Sirius trip over his next few words, for the idea was startling and robbed him of his composure a bit. 

“You would think it was fine- if, if, maybe, you didn’t consider so many of those traditions and tenants of culture are about supremacy. About how purebloods are better, more powerful, more deserving of their magic than others. You wouldn’t think it always meant that muggleborns were deemed inferior. Not just muggleborns. Everyone. Other creatures.” He watched Remus and the way his scars seemed to stretch a bit at the idea. The way he seemed to taughten. Like the way the impending fullness of the moon made him tense. He ripped apart the blades of grass he had been braiding. 

“And muggles themselves. They’re seen as lesser. Maybe it wasn’t always like that? I don’t know. But- but, that’s what it’s become, I think. Or, so people say. So my parents say, anyway.” Sirius rubbed his palms against his face. He wasn’t sure how to explain how he knew it was something cruel and ugly, he just knew it was. 

It was the way they laughed about making legislation that would hurt muggleborns, the way they joked about hunting them, like the old days. And the way Remus had cried about his mum. The way Remus was, himself. A wolf, but really just another boy who’s life had been upturned by cruelty and circumstance, and who was now just doing his best to be normal. To learn magic. And the things his family would say about this boy, no, Sirius wouldn’t be part of it. He felt the thrum of the magic in the Elm at his back.

“James did say your dad was quite the character. Very biased against Hufflepuff, it seems.” Remus said softly, looking down at his own hands now, only smiling just a little. 

Sirius huffed and tilted his head back against the rough bark, looking up at the little strips of sky visible above between the old boughs, dark blue and interspersed with great clumps of drifting clouds, lazy and slow in the warming winds of coming spring. 

Sirius didn’t know how to explain it, he just knew where he stood. At their mercy. And he didn’t trust them with that much power. It was that simple. 

He imagined sometimes that it was the Gryffindor in him. That he knew right from wrong, without really knowing much about why. The hat had barely said anything to him, just “oh, now this one’s easy! GRYFFINDOR!” and that had been that. No explanation, no discussion. Just truth. And Sirius had felt it ring true in his heart and his bones and the way it made him fill with pride. 

He nearly said aloud how he wouldn’t let them beat it out of him, that pride, that righteousness, that sense that he wouldn’t be seduced into their world, couldn’t be. That he was stronger, even while at their mercy. Even when in so much pain. 

But he didn’t tell Remus this, he just stood, brushing off his dark trousers and the glorious black t-shirt he’d long since stolen from James, knotting his hair up in a bun and securing it with his wand of yew. 

“Come on Remus, i’ll be late for quidditch practice if we don’t hustle up and Longbottom’s been in a towering temper all week as it is.” Sirius offered Remus his hand, ready to pull him to his feet. The feel of the elm seemed to fade from him as he moved away.

“Oh, what’s it this time? Alice break up with him again?” Remus took the proffered hand and let Sirius do all the lifting as he straightened out his long legs and heaved his bag up on his shoulder. 

“Nah, nothing like it. Just the Slytherin match coming up and you know how he gets when they’re riling him. All the taunts they make up about the chasers and Pepper. Foul gits. What I wouldn’t give to land a bludger right across that fifth year, Tiberius McLaggen’s smarmy face.” Sirius snickered at the thought and pretended to swing his bat, the motion satisfying and fluid. 

“I’ve been putting bulbadox powder in all their gear. James and I snuck into their changing rooms by the pitch the other night. Wasn’t hard at all. Just a little alohomora and we were in.” Sirius laughed loud and bright at the memory of it. He couldn’t wait to see the rashes it would lead to. The itching. They’d all be covered in nightshade poultice for at least a week to get rid of the redness. Fools. 

Remus sighed heavily and gave Sirius and endeared sort of look, though Sirius knew he hardly approved of this low-level sabotage. Sirius knocked his shoulder gently against Remus and ruffled his hair. “Give me a break, you cur. Not all of us are paragons of utilitarian non-violence.” 

Remus rolled his eyes, but it was fond and entirely like him, so Sirius let it go, and rather treated Remus to a solid seventeen minute lecture on beater tactics that he and Gideon would be going over for the next week in hopes of annihilating the Slytherin beaters in the coming match. Two huge blokes, Crabbe and Goyle, complete trolls on brooms, but absolutely capable of knocking someone unconscious with a bat, as it were. 

______________

_ April 22nd, 1973  _

In the end, they had secured an absolutely devastating defeat of Slytherin, with James scoring several stunning goals and Sirius landing a positively foul hit right to seventh year chaser Poe Merrin’s abdomen as she reached to catch the quaffle in the first half of the match. She’d been out the rest of the game and they had to play their backup, some idiot second year named Wilkes who could barely stay on his broom. 

Then, like the dynamite she was, Pepper had absolutely robbed the Slytherin seeker of the snitch, really stole it from just a hair’s breadth beyond their fingers in a spectacular swooping dive. Gryffindor had celebrated, and rightly so, until the small hours of the morning when McGonagall had come storming into the common room issuing a cease and desist, though, really, Sirius had thought she was hiding a smile somewhere in the rage. 

Well, it was several days later, the start of the Easter holiday, sitting at breakfast in the great hall, that Sirius got an owl. A very large screech owl, in fact. His father’s owl. And it had been carrying a rather large and ungainly wooden crate, which Sirius had opened with much trepidation and under Remus’s very nervous and wide-eyed gaze, James tipping over his shoulder to see what was causing all the fanfare, Peter at his other elbow, spluttering his confusion. 

In the box there had been a hare. A grey one. Slit from stomach to sternum, entrails spilling out. Beside the hare, which almost immediately became a meal for the very insistent screech owl, much to everyone’s discomfort, was a letter, penned in his father’s elegant french script. 

It was, as Sirius quickly realised, an invitation, which he read with shaking hands as several more owls now crowded around the box and there was much background screeching, and James insisting that everyone remain calm. 

The men of the family Black, as was custom, were to make an appearance at the Ishtar rites, a yearly summit that had its roots in a spring ceremony for the old gods. Each year, Sirius had dreaded the appearance of the grey hare somewhere in the house. Each year, he had to watch as the hare was caught and split open, his father’s hands, so often disinterested in violence, would fish between it’s entrails for the coveted golden egg. 

Oh, and how he coveted it. Gleeful and wicked, it was the only time of the year that Sirius would see his father smile with so many teeth. Decorum, for Ishtar, was seemingly forgotten.

This year, in the spring of his thirteenth, Sirius was old enough to attend, and, it seemed, he was expected to, though he had never thought that his father would call to him, here and now, while he was ensconced, protected, at Hogwarts. Not while he was busy with quidditch and lessons and being someone new, someone different from the heir to the house of Black. 

He knew the stories of the old goddess Ishtar, of the descent into the underworld, of the sex and power and violence she incited. And, he knew how each year during her rights, his mother would pace and drink and fill with a simmering rage for the three days of his father’s absence. How Druella and Lucretia would visit, and they would spend long hours hissing and spitting about whores and foulness of men, Sirius sitting on the stairs beneath the rows of house elf heads, listening, but far from understanding. 

So, he had stuffed the invitation in his pocket and run upstairs, ignoring the many questions from his friends and the shocked cries of onlookers. He had returned to Grimmauld Place that evening, and his father had ordered they adorn themselves in their most lavish of black wizarding robes with high white collars and hundreds of silk covered buttons in long, elegant rows, shoes so highly polished that Sirius could see the reflection of the flickering flames of the fire in them, topped with his fanciest of dress socks, with lace cuffs folded over across his ankles. His hands were in white gloves, cufflinks upon his wrists, and his hair tied back, spelled slick and severe. 

They spoke to each other in french, and his mother refused to look at him at all. 

Before the fire in the sitting room, his father had passed him a strip of sky blue silk to tie about his neck, an eight pointed silver star gleaming from it. He, too, tied a similar pendant about his neck, the rarest hint of a smile pulling at cleanly shaven cheeks that had so recently been so intimate with the blade of a razor. His aftershave was strong and bitter, and Sirius felt so strange to stand beside him, as if this was someone new, someone different from his father, so often dull and proper and disinterested in the world around him. 

No, this man was sharp and hungry and Sirius thought he recognised that change, and somehow it was familiar. Like the start of a match. Like the start of the hunt. 

But he hadn’t had much time to think of it before the portkey had glowed blue and they were pulled through the crushing darkness between space. 

______________

His father had told him that this was a place for the men of the sacred twenty eight, or at least a sympathetic subset of them, to come and talk business, discuss politics, wield their power and their influence as one, plan for the coming year. He has said it was a time and a place for bonding and connecting to the renewal that comes with spring, the uniting of old ties. A binding. A entwining. An homage to the old gods as a brotherhood of men. 

And done that they had, the forty-three attendees that year had all gathered and sat themselves at a seemingly endless dining table, from Herbert Bulstrode to Gibbon Yaxley, the elderly Eugene Slughorn with his liver spots and halitosis to the youngest attendees, the Yaxley brothers Corban and Cadmus, and Sirius himself. At the far end of the table, Lucius Malfoy, violently blonde and sneering, sat beside his father, Abraxas, just across from Wymark and Basil Selwyn, the latter of whom had managed to spill the french onion soup all down his front, half blind and feeble as he was. 

Sirius sat beside his father, with Everett and Jude Parkinson on his left, both of whom had a gleeful nervousness about them that Sirius found unsettling, and who had spent much of dinner sharing whispered mutterings with Marcellus and Cassius Greengrass, who had both ordered their steaks rare and wolfed them down rapaciously, conversation punctuated with rather bloody smiles. 

What his father and his uncles had failed to mention, was that while that it was true that Ishtar signified the strengthening of old pureblood business ties, and they had sat for hours to discuss many tedious and nefarious things (which was much the same to many of the summer dinners and fundraising balls he’d been forced to attend), they also had come to honour Ishtar’s other infamous creeds. Sacred couplings offered divine blessings, or so tradition said, and for that reason the manor house on which they had all descended was filled to the brim with gala, worshippers who offered their bodies in exchange for gold and the fondness of Ishtar. 

That is what his father had said, under many nods from his grandfather Arcturus, great uncle Pollux and uncle Cygnus, yes, all of them after dinner in the smoking room with beautiful women draped about their greedy, unrepentant forms, Pollox dropping a gold galleon into the mouth of one such blonde beauty, who sucked it eagerly, cheeks hollowed. 

A woman with long black hair and light blue eyes came crawling across the floor to Sirius. She was naked, as all the gala were, and her eyes were soft and unfocused, blue as the wide, deep sea. 

She crawled to him, heels of her palms soft on the plush carpeting of the sitting room, and kneeled before the rounded, leather chair he sat in. Conversation drifted in and out of his focus. He watched her lips and the sway of her breasts as she crawled. 

“Rhys, old boy, you can’t be serious. How can you tell me that the Wizengamot would pass something so ludicrous? It’s a scandal.” 

The speaker was a middle aged man, pockmarked with ruddy cheeks and deep set eyes beneath a thick brow. In one hand he held the wooden pipe capped in decorative silver plates that produced thick, idle smoke tinged blue that drifted about the room and seemed to slow time. In his lap sat another gala, perhaps twenty years his junior, stunningly beautiful and equally as vacant looking. She ran lazy fingers through his hair as he carried on. 

Sirius’s eyes wouldn’t stray long from the woman before him, who had stopped crawling to sit, bare ass against bare feet, tucked beneath her. She reached up to run her palms up and down his thighs, her nails catching occasionally on the lush fabric of his robes. The silver star around his neck glittered in the soft light of the fire, which crackled easily, nearly lazily, on the far side of the sitting room. 

“Now now, Mortimer. Don’t get yourself too worked up over the ministry. We’ve developed several shadow committees to head off the muggle rights activists under the guise of preservation of wizarding culture. It’s nothing to worry your head about. No one is coming for the Lestrange family vault. Not this century, anyway.” The answering voice was from a man who laughed and reached across the arm of the sofa to playfully smack at the naked ass of a gala walking by, her arms laden with a tray of strong drinks. Sirius had been introduced to him earlier over dinner. Vaguely, somewhere in his memory, Sirius recalled this man, Rhys Fawley, was the youngest ever recruit to the unspeakables, poached from his first year at the ministry, just after he’d published a widely acclaimed article in  _ Transfiguration Today _ . Something about properties of anti-matter. 

Rhys Fawley watched her as she walked away. He was classically good looking, all wide smiles and perfectly straight teeth, blonde hair and strong jawline. His voice was smooth and arrogant, and Sirius both disliked and was fascinated by him, but his limbs were strangely heavy and he lacked the motivation to draw attention to himself, so he turned his gaze back to the gala on her knees before him. She was kissing the soft black fabric of his robes, the folds that lay draped between his thighs. 

It was shortly after this, on the first night of Ishtar, that Sirius had been sent up to bed, his father running idle fingers through galleons in his pockets, their soft tinkling sound decadent and distractingly audible. 

Laying awake on soft white sheets, Sirius felt as though the earth had shifted fundamentally. The ground felt uneven and unstable, as if all the careful considered rules he’d always been taught were the cinches to the world of pureblood society were not absolute. They were just as much of a facade as he had always imagined, for now, in the confines of their ritual, they were breaking all of the customs of polite society. Yes, they were even bending the most cardinal of rules, that muggles were dirty, beastly things. Yet, here they were, their flesh on display, their delicate beauty undeniable, recognised and relished, feasted upon. 

And forty three men of the most scrupulous pedigrees disrobed themselves for the pleasure of muggle women, soft and supple and unyielding. 

Suddenly, everything felt unreal. But, at the same time, so incredibly real. And the irony, the hypocrisy of the whole thing, it was a strong and bitter taste, like the many drinks that had eased so many throats.

Sirius had never seen a naked woman in the flesh before the dinner service on the evening of his arrival, and he thought about her, and all the others, laying in bed that night. She had walked in, long and lean and effortless swathes of unblemished skin, her hips and breasts and thighs all soft and just a bit tremulous with the swaying motion of her walk, two long french braids draping down past her shoulders. 

Sirius had only ever seen nakedness in art. Oil paintings by the great European masters and the Greeks, some Romans. Women with pink skin and pink nipples, nearly indiscernible. Women with cherub-like rolls, or tall and slender and still so statuesque somehow, as if they were really just marble beneath the rouge. 

But these women, these women were so very real. They had thickets of dark hair between their legs, or soft blonde curls in the valley of their hips. Their nipples were large, soft and dark or wrinkled and pert, breasts unequal in size and stomachs painted in incandescent markings, some which seemed to shimmer in the half light of the manor as the sun went down, shivers of flesh that flickered with the same effervescent beauty of the eight pointed stars that adorned their clothed necks. Women who rippled with the impact on their flesh. 

Some had thick thighs that moved together as they walked, and others seemed to teeter on the spindles that were their narrow legs. Some had great hips and asses that were rounded and dimpled and full, the slits between their legs hidden amongst the folds of flesh. He dreamt of sex that first night, amorphous and intangible sounds. Groaning and panting and the very real sounds of flesh slapping against flesh. 

______________

On the second night, no one chased Sirius off to bed. He was there in the library, midway through a discussion of wand lore with Gervaise Ollivander, when the oldest attendee, a shrunken man with a carved ebony cane, decried the lack of “visible cunt” and demanded the festivities begin in earnest, as he was growing tired of the political scheming and simply too old to waste time with power games. Cantankerous Nott was like that, wrinkled and shrivelled and mean. He had demanded four of the youngest girls take him to his quarters, remarking loudly on their anatomy, his veined hands unencumbered across their flesh. 

Sirius’s eyes had followed a gala with beautiful golden curls that swung down her back as she served the men small crystal goblets of floral green liqueur, accompanying sugar cubes and dainty spoons, handles carved with the vicious faces of the fae. Another gala trailed behind her, her skin soft and dark and decadent, delivered little carafes of water, Her cheeks so charmingly pulled by matching dimples. Across from Sirius, Silas and Herbert Burke had let the water drip into their drinks, pausing after every few drops to sniff at the liqueur, which became thick and cloudy and nearly neon in its hue. 

Rudolphus and Rabastan, Mortimer Lestrange’s nearly adult sons, were quick to smirk to one another and rise from their shared chaise lounge, downing their drinks and leaving crystal goblets on the side tables. Sirius watched Rudolphus grab the gala with the golden curls by the hair and drag her backwards out to the hall, the silver tray falling from her hands. Their laughing, jeering and the slaps of her bare feet on the marble floor carried, and Mortimer laughed heartily, wooden pipe ensconced so comfortably in the corner of his slack mouth. 

“Boys will be boys, it seems.” His dark eyes had crinkled with laughter and it was echoed around the room from the others, little green goblets clinking together as somewhere a gramophone played Debussy. 

And so, as the sun sank below the horizon in the time dilated evenings of the manor, the drinks and pipes were plentiful and the house slowly devolved into lecherous debauchery, couplings and triads and groups of men with their hungry breaths and gala with their soft and vacantness, so malleable in their rough hands. 

It wasn’t long after Sirius accepted his third goblet of the green drink that Nicabar Carrow unfastened his robes and pushed the head of a passing gala down so that her cheek lay flat against a little antique side table, floral patterns carved up it’s artfully bowed legs. His other hand lay flat across her other cheek, her lips and eyes distorted and pulled beneath the press of his palm. 

Sirius, frozen in shock and unrepentant disbelief, watched as Nicabar’s cock slipped between her legs and they both cried out, her in pain and him in heady triumph. Beckett Rosier raised his own glass from across the room to give a drunken, “Cheers, Nick!” before pulling a pretty brunette woman aside, his fingers quick to slip between her legs as his lips met hers. Cheers echoed around the room, and Oberon Rowle whistled, then laughed, deep and hearty and carefree.

Sirius watched as Nicabar Carrow fucked her over the table, his hand moving from her cheek to grab at her long, wavy dark hair, his thrusting rapid and chaotic, his bare hips and large belly slapping against the flesh of her thighs and ass. Her face in a grimace, eyes closed tight, his so hungry and vacant, flushed and sweaty. 

He was there to see the way his body shuddered as he pulled away, his hand pulling at his cock in several desperate strokes as he groaned, thick white strands of fluid falling against her dark skin, just so pearlescent in the firelight. 

Sirius watched still as Nicabar Carrow caught his breath, tucking his still leaking cock back beneath his robes and mopping his brow with a dainty handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat beneath. He watched as he lay a gleaming golden galleon on the table beside the woman, who was breathing heavily, who had not yet stood to her full height. Who, Sirius could see, was trembling, the little table with the floral carved legs supporting her weight, her arms tucked about her naked breasts. Her skin seemed to shimmer with the same golden hue as the coin beside her. As the semen, now drying on her naked ass. 

Oberon Rowle had joined Beckett Rosier in groping the pretty brunette, and she was disappearing between their greedy hands and mouths, swallowed up in their covetous attentions. 

And Sirius watched as Nicabar Carrow laughed as he passed Rowle and Rosier, then nodding to Gervaise Ollivander as he grabbed a crystal goblet from the tray held aloft by yet another passing gala and sat himself down on the chaise across from Sirius, drinking heavily from the etched glass, as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired at all. 

“Can’t afford to finish in them, not at my age anyway. Who knows how many brats I’ve got running around from all the years of letting gala milk me dry. I must’ve fucked all the muggles in Wales by now.” He smacked his lips and lay back, arm spread wide across the back of the chaise. 

“What are you looking at, boy?” Nicabar had turned his attention to Sirius, who promptly closed his gaping mouth and sipped at his own drink of deepest green. It was his third goblet, but the liqueur still burned his throat and he had to hold his tongue tight against the roof of his mouth not to cough and sputter as it went down. In the corner, the brunette made a quickly stifled squeal, and Rowle’s laugh rippled around the room again. Sirius felt as though he had swallowed ice.

“Oh, you’re Orion’s boy aren’t you? That shameful Gryffindor he’s been whinging about.” Nicabar sighed deeply, an ugly smile on his reddened face. “First Ishtar, is it? No wonder you look like you’ve had a right shock. Don’t worry, boy you’ll have your turn tomorrow night. All new inductees get a gala to themselves at moonrise of the third day. You’ll have your chance to fuck one of these heathens properly.” 

Sirius swallowed down more of his drink and listened to his heart pounding in his chest. He could hear more rhythmic sounds as Rosier fucked the brunette’s throat. 

Gervaise, his hollowed face on Sirius now, chuckled. “And if you can fuck half as well as Orion, proper it will be. Gods what I’d give to have a cock like that. The thickness of it, Nicabar, it’s a shame us mere mortals weren’t so blessed.” Gervaise was palming himself through his robes and it was clear he was hard already, his hungry eyes sweeping the room and the many gala who wandered between men, serving and bending to wayward hands, grasping fingers. Sirius felt the burn of bile rising from his gut. 

“Please excuse me, Mr. Carrow, Mr. Ollivander.” He nodded to the two men, who were now making to share a newly sparked opium pipe between them as Gervaise Ollivander undid his robes for the auburn-haired woman who he had beckoned to and was now kneeling between his feet. They didn’t seem to notice him leave. Across the room, the galleon was gone from the table. 

Sirius ducked beyond the heavy wooden door to the library, gasping and reaching up to undo the top buttons of his stuffy robes. He stumbled into the entrance hall with it’s grand staircase, wide and resplendent, only realising after several long moments that it was occupied by the spindly frame of Harfang Longbottom, who’s bare ass was pumping rhythmically between the spread thighs of a woman draped across the stairs, her breasts spread awkwardly on either side of her chest, large and pendulous as they were. Her eyes were half open and her hands were limp and pliant as Harfang slid his cock relentlessly between her legs. 

The grand room seemed to spin around him, and Sirius was reluctant to catch glimpses of the portraits along the walls making lewd gestures and remarks, hands shoved beneath their own fastidious dress robes. Or maybe he imagined it? For on second look there were many blank canvases or empty chairs in gilded frames, his vision hazy, his limbs so heavy. 

Sirius turned quickly, too quickly, as his stomach heaved in protest, from the stairs and made his way back across to the panelled dining room with it’s endless oak table and whose door was closed. He thought it might offer respite from the nauseating scenes before him. Old men, wizards, forcing themselves and their bodies on the softest, most beautiful of young women, dazed and glassy eyed and so placid, so vacant, so bereft of their humanness, as naked and bared as they were. 

It was disgusting. Disgusting. Horrific. Yet, tantalising, in the way forbidden things always were. In the way sex and love and the touch of another was powerful and invigorating. Forbidden and so interesting. So difficult to watch, yet so difficult to look away from. 

The door to the dining room swung inward and Sirius didn’t make it past the threshold, for there spread across the table was a woman, Grayson MacMillan’s face between her legs, arms clasped about her spread thighs, another woman pouring red wine across the first’s trembling stomach so it ran in rivulets down her pale skin. 

Sirius turned from the room, his heart pounding in his ears, sounds of rushing blood loud with the sounds of sex. Wet sounds of flesh and fluids and the sounds of men as they came. 

Harfang did not look around as Sirius darted back across the grand hall, and nor did the woman beneath him, if she was conscious and capable of such things. Sirius ducked into the guest washroom, his ears ringing with continued sounds. Loud and disarticulated, peppered with laughter and the voices of women, solicitous and free. Voices that had not come from the throats of the gala. Voices that could not have come from them, as captivated by such brutal magic as they were. 

Sirius felt his stomach lurch and he threw up in the porcelain sink, his hands shaking on the gilded taps. Gold, like the galleons. The laughter in his ears grew louder and the women’s voices taunted him. His face in the mirror was pale and sweaty, and he wiped his sleeve across his brow, his hair coming free from the slicked ponytail that lay across his spine. 

He looked young. Too young for this. Too young for the exploits of these men, who preached purity to the public, yet came to this isolated manor house in Wales to adorn themselves in the filth of the world. To lick the secretive folds of pink flesh between the thighs of muggles, to father children with them. 

All, it seems, without their knowing.

Sirius vomited into the sink again, green and frothy and pungent with the smells of so many blessed herbs, crushed by holy men, pious and monastic. What irony. What irony. 

Sirius closed his eyes and breathed slowly against the nausea and the loudness in his ears, the laughing dying away to be replaced by the soft voice of another disembodied woman, which licked and danced about his ears. Run free, she said softly, carelessly. Run free little master Black. You are not one of them. Run free. 

And so he did. He left the washroom, stopping only at the sight of Harfang, both hands around the woman’s neck, yelling at the top of his voice for her to take his seed, but then Sirius was whipping around and making a run for the front door, his heavy legs impeding him only slightly, tripping through the front entry way as the woman's voice whispered for him to run. Out into the free air. Out into the night. 

And so he did. He ran out across the great lawns and down, down into the orchard, leaves just budding from fruit trees in long rows, boughs tended and trained in artful arches toward the sky. And only once beneath the carefully sculpted trees, did Sirius sink to the ground, back against the spindly trunk of a Denbigh plum, leaves just beginning to bud from the spring-warmed stems. 

He felt nauseous still. Disgusted. Confused. 

He felt heavy. He reached up and unbuttoned more of the tedious little satin buttons that had so elegantly held him together within the manor. Under the gaze of so many powerful people, powerful and hungry. Eyes so sharp, so quick to spot weakness. To find prey. 

Sirius breathed heavily and let the cool air of the orchard strip away the heat that radiated from his bare skin. His face. His throat. His wrists. His mind raced, then slowed, thoughts tumbling ungainly and ill-formed, swept away in the cooling draft of the orchard breeze. 

He sat there until the women’s voices died away on the spring wind from the east and the light of the moon no longer held an eerie green tinge, high and far away in the sky as it was. 

Far away, like Remus. Like Hogwarts. Like the world he had felt so safe and secure in, a world where he had built friendships, a world of routine. A world where the rules weren’t so heady and confusing, so fraught with so many sinister things. Where breaking them didn’t feel like breaking his own grasp of humanity. Of right and wrong. Where he was just a boy. One of many. A boy finding his own way. A boy who’d never seen a naked woman, let alone born witness to sex, just there, in front of him, with all the sounds and the lewdness of it. The realness. The smell, even, like sweat and sweetness of bodies. Of breath. 

Sex. That was another confusing thing. 

It reminded him of quidditch, though he couldn’t really understand why. The closeness of bodies, maybe. The quickening of his pulse. The hunger he felt. The thrill of the violence of it? Maybe it was the same, maybe it was something similar. 

It made his skin feel tight. It made his mouth thick and his thoughts heavy, and his balls had a particular kind of ache that was distracting and unsettling, much like the words of Nicabar Carrow back in the thick smoke that lay about the library. Words that had come back to Sirius after he’d let himself become cool and soft and less terrified in the glittering light of the stars and the moon, among the soft grass and the trees that let him feel so much more at home, eight pointed star still sharp and brilliant on his chest. 

Words about the last night of Ishtar. Words about proving himself. Proving he belonged. 

Did he belong? 

All his life he had made an effort to belong. To be well behaved. To be polite and courteous and to follow all their ridiculous rules. To present himself well. To be a Black, noble and ancient and heir to their house, heir to their power and their legacy. 

He dressed himself in their custom, and he bowed low as he greeted his elders in French. He spent every Yule at Baudelaire, his waltz and repartee equally as appropriate, delicate and sharp. He attended the summer events, sporadic and less grand than the winters in France, though far more conventional in the way in which he had to foxtrot and then twirl about the maypole, a Greengrass or a Burke on his arm, pretending to be so modern and reformed. 

He did these things because he had never known a world where he was allowed to not do them. A world where his mother would not drag him from the floo and beat him bloody for his missteps. For errant comments. For threats to the power and the influence of the house of Black. 

A world where his father did not sneer at him as though he regretted his very existence. As if his son were nothing to him, nothing but a bore, nothing but a burden. An embarrassing, worthless thing. And how much worse it had been that first year after he had been sorted into Gryffindor, though he had come home those holidays knowing so keenly, so fiercely how critical it would be to behave. To prove his worth. To prove his value.

So that they would not hurt him. Hurt him more than they had, that is. 

And it had improved, somewhat, as Sirius was quiet and well disciplined in the way that he had been taught. In the ways he had been folded and formed and beaten to be. 

It had been easier, with Hogwarts in his future, even just the idea that somewhere he had a respite. A place to return to. Friends. A rebellion of his own making, a place where he could live as himself. That had given him strength, resilience he had never thought he would muster. It had carried him through the holidays away from the castle, it had kept him quiet and demure. 

It had kept him well behaved enough that their shame of his house allocation had faded, had ebbed and subsided and allowed his father to think that he was ready for Ishtar, for fielty and fidelity to the brotherhood of pureblood men. To be inducted between them, to share in their salacious secrets and their rituals. 

Had faded enough for his father to stop, just before they stepped into the green flames of the floo, to tell his son that he was going to be so proud that he was his son. 

_ Proud _ . A word that had roared through his blood like fiendfyre. Set him alight. Alive. A word that made him forget all of the nasty, brutal things. All of the bigotry and beatings. A word that made him hopeful. A word that felt like maybe it could be love? 

And, maybe he was like them after all. Longbottom was a Gryffindor, Frank had said his whole family was, and surely that included one of his less scrupulous uncles who still worshipped in the old ways. Maybe he wasn’t that different. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe thinking that being sorted into a different house made him different was a naive and childish thing. 

Maybe it wasn’t all that meaningful at all. 

Sirius watched the moon, waning now, falling in the second half of the night sky, his yew wand tucked into his swept up hair. 

______________

Sirius pulled his hair back from his face and slipped the eight pointed star on it’s blue silk ribbon from around his neck, handing it across to his father, who sat, not proper and rigid like all the times before, but half slumped, lounging against the black leather of the carriage seat, a tobacco pipe slack against his bottom lip, filling the small space with its soft smell after gentle and seemingly thoughtful puffs. 

Sirius’s robes were half undone still, so many satin buttons loose and his high collar dishevelled, his trousers creased and crinkled in ways that would have made his mother sputter and fume in disgust. 

The carriage rocked and rolled along, the steady thrumming of well shod hooves on the cobbled lane that led away from the manor, behind swaying black backs and red ribbons of Percherons and the creaking of leather, so much softer and less threatening than the years before. Suddenly so much less dramatic. Less frightening. 

But then again, obedience was less frightening. Less weighty. Less suffocating, somehow. It had it perks, after all, it seemed. And he had survived long enough to see them. 

Sirius glanced out the window and watched the Welsh countryside fall away. He watched the rolling hills and haphazard stone walls dissolve, and with it the sounds and smells and unreality of the preceding days. Everything seemed softer, more muted, as they trundled away from the rising moon on the third night of Ishtar. 

Away from the rites. 

It seemed as though that morning was ages, decades, lifetimes ago. When he had startled awake with a spinning head and a roiling burning pain in his stomach, still curled beneath the plum tree, an imposter between the more gnarled boughs of the apple orchard. 

Yes, perhaps it was a lifetime ago, a different life, when Sirius had stumbled his way back up to the manor, up to the small bedrooms in the quiet panelled halls of the upstairs. Where he had seen gala, men and women alike, slipping from the sleeping quarters of so many others. 

A tall gala with dark hair and bright amber eyes had caught Sirius’s stare, and Sirius had felt a flush of colour rise in his cheeks as his gaze lingered on the man’s body, and his thoughts stuttered on how strange and warm and flustered it made him feel, so much more so than the myriad of beautiful women had, with their softness and their curves. No, this gala was sharp and angular and enticing in ways he hadn’t expected. Hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t let himself discover. 

But, the moment only lasted an instant, and Sirius was slipping back into his room, discarding his crumpled robes for a house elf to clean and drawing the soft white sheets around him, desperate for a few more hours sleep and a respite from the nervousness that had begun to pile up around him, heavy and insistent on his skin. 

That afternoon he had been summoned for the initiation rites, which had started with their donning cloaks of sky blue and chanting old magic to the old gods, piling gold galleons and swearing bonds of fielty. Sirius had let the incantations wash over him, had held aloft his wand of yew and chanted, rhythmic and soothing, somehow familiar. 

He had let himself tread circles of magic, weaving between candles that dripped black wax onto old oaken floorboards, clocks swishing and magic spinning. He had done all of these things, and he tried hard not to think too much about what it all meant. About what his fielty meant. To Ishtar, and to blood. 

He stood with his elders, his father’s hand on one shoulder, Pollux and Cygnus beside him. Around them, other families assembled, sky blue and pure, faces tired and satisfied, worn out with the revelry of the nights before.

It had been an hour after the sun fell that the moon rose, and Sirius was given a gold galleon by his father to place in the mouth of a gala of his choosing, all of them, men and women alike, kneeling with lips parted, expectant, ready for the inductees to take their pick, his father squeezing his shoulder and giving him a rare, captivating grin. 

He and Cadmus and Corban, the two Yaxley brothers, were the only boys in attendance, the only ones to be enfolded into the ritual that was the worship of Ishtar, a bond that stretched back centuries. Cadmus, the younger of the two, a Ravenclaw in the year above Sirius, had shuddered at the placement of his galleon against his palm by his father, Gibbon Yaxley, and the elder man had leaned down to the young boy’s ear, his whisper harsh, but carrying. 

“Don’t you dare embarrass me you little brat. Fuck her properly and make me proud. Make your name proud. Dishonour your blood and I will punish you by bleeding you dry of it. Go, make yourself a man.” 

Corban, so much more haughty than his brother, had taken his galleon with a sure smirk, already unbuttoning the high, tight collar of his shirt beneath the sky blue cloak, which had his father laughing deeply in approval, clapping the boy on his shoulder. 

Sirius had chosen a woman with skin that was smooth and dark and that reminded him of James, and her smile was similarly jaunty, kind, hopefully forgiving. Her hair was curled in tight ringlets, some which hung across her pretty face, her eyes, so like the others, so curiously blank. 

He had put the galleon in her mouth and watched her full cheeks pull inward, standing to take his hand and lead him to an adjoining room, his choice leading to loud jeers and applause from the circle of men at his back, Corban and Cadmus similarly goaded. 

“We’ll go straight back to Hogwarts, I think, my son. Best to avoid your mother in the days after Ishtar, and I can imagine how she’d punish us both for your induction.” 

Sirius snapped back from the recollection, nodding to his father, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch upward at the endearment.  _ My son _ . How he’d spent all of his formative years so eager to hear something so simple. So common. 

As Sirius turned back to the window, he recognised the sleepy shops and dark high street of Hogsmeade, the road sloping gently upwards to the gates, pillars topped with such familiar winged boars. 

How could such a short time have passed and everything have changed so much. Sirius folded his dark traveling cloak over his arm, the castle looming closer as they rolled up the drive. 

“Thank you, Father.” He said, and the air wasn’t stiff and formal between them, for the tired smile he received was sly and warm and so unlike the man who had raised him. Who had formed him until this moment. 

“Go on then, be a man of Ishtar now.” Sirius grinned and tried not to think of how the woman with the soft curls and her dark skin had made him feel. 

The crack of the whip sounded as the calash rolled back down the drive, the percherons in perfect tandem, necks flexed and bowed low as they pulled the carriage back into the night. 

______________

When Sirius slipped into the common room of the Gryffindor dormitory, it was half past two in the morning, the lamps were no longer lit and the fire was burning low. He snapped his fingers for a house elf and handed over his traveling cloak for a thorough cleaning, and he did not see the form of a normally long and lanky figure curled up in the armchair beside the embers. He did not see him, and his soft voice cutting through the quiet of the night made him startle. 

“For the love of Merlin, Sirius…” Remus was standing from the chair, walking toward him slowly, eyes wide and searching. 

“Lupin, you utter creep! What’re you doing up at this hour, lurking about in the dark? Waiting to scare me?” Sirius laughed, loud and bright and wholly inappropriate in the softness of the common room at such an ungodly hour. 

Remus stopped several paces from him, nostrils flared and eyes darting around his decidedly haphazard appearance, even lingering on the little lace cuffs of his dress socks. “Sirius, you… What did you do?” 

“What do you mean what did I do? I was away for Easter holidays, like everyone else, you barmy fool.” Sirius tried to put on his winning smile and the joviality that so often carried him through secrets he wanted to keep. He cuffed Lupin across the shoulder and went to climb the staircase to his dormitory, his dress shoes making unnatural loud clicks on each stair, and his back prickling with drops of sweat. 

It felt as though two worlds were colliding. Two versions of himself. Two universes with different rules, now muddied and muddled somewhere uncomfortably in the middle. He felt as though Lupin had caught him doing something wrong. Something bad and dirty. Something he should feel guilty for. 

Should he feel guilty? 

Sirius grabbed a t-shirt (the weird sisters, one of James’s) and a pair of normal shorts and headed straight for the showers. His hands shook only a little as he worked to undo the rest of the little satin buttons. The ones that had held him together so fastidiously. 

He showered under piping hot water and scrubbed at his skin, over and over, unsure why he felt like he couldn’t get properly clean. 


	8. Lupus Crescente

Fighting against the desire to stay ensconced in the safety of Gryffindor tower, Remus dropped his creased and frayed copy of _ The Left Hand of Darkness _ onto his maroon duvet and pulled a soft lilac sweater over his grey t-shirt. He shoved his feet into his well worn loafers as he made for the door and followed the sounds of other students, all migrating towards the Great Hall for lunch. 

James and Sirius weren’t in the common room, and he felt a twinge of irritation he couldn’t place. Things had been… well, they’d been a bit awkward, strained even, between Remus and Sirius. Between all of them. Ever since he had come back so suddenly late one night only days into the Easter holiday and Remus couldn’t seem to place why. 

Sirius had been startled and caught out, guilty and defensive, smelling strongly of sweet sweat and bodies much too old for him. Smelling of things Remus couldn’t yet identify, hadn’t learned the names for, but that made his skin prickle and throat uncomfortably tight. It made his body tense in a way that was entirely new, made his stomach lurch and head feel as if it were suddenly full of a chorus of bees. It made his fists clench without his permission and his mouth go oddly dry with the way Sirius suddenly wouldn’t look him in the eye when they were alone. As if Sirius was afraid Remus could read his thoughts. As if he were hiding something from Remus. 

Remus had asked, kindly and softly, if Sirius was okay, if he wanted to go to the kitchens, if he fancied a walk on the grounds, but Sirius had rebuffed him. “Oh, no, Mister Lupin, you go on without me, I’ve things to attend to.” 

And, so it went. Day in and day out, since then. Remus reached out tentatively to fall back into their rhythm, into their soft considerations of one another, but Sirius couldn’t seem to be bothered. Couldn’t seem to make time. Was suddenly always busy and surrounded by others. 

So, Remus stopped asking. 

He had been struck with a feeling, sticky like tar, in his throat with the realisation that Sirius, the boy who pulled secrets from him, kicking and screaming, was keeping secrets of his own. Secrets that were weighing him down, piling up around him, making him quieter and more subdued than Remus had ever known him. 

Not that anyone else seemed to notice, for Sirius, ever the performer, never passed up an opportunity to be the centre of attention. After quidditch practice, he could often be found nudging shoulders with Gideon, whispering a particularly low brow joke, or play duelling with James in the common room, much to the amusement and cheers of onlookers. 

But, Remus saw, when the audience vanished, so did Sirius’s contagious, often false, smile. Leaving him lost in his thoughts, staring hard at a point on the floor, his fingers clenching and releasing without his notice. It was in these lulls and moments of quiet that Remus would sit himself beside Sirius, and wait. Wait for the secrets to come, wait for things to go back to normal. 

But, they didn’t. Sirius would notice Remus beside him, and the mask would fall back in place, odd and unsettling. And Sirius would make a joke and retreat. Leave Remus to his own devices. Leave him hurt and confused. 

Remus would watch and feel the splintering ground between them widen, their magic suddenly so careful around one another. He would watch how Sirius was becoming closer and closer with Gideon and the other quidditch players. How he was teasing girls with a roguish smile and playful winks, how his eyes would follow the older boys and how he would mimic their antics. Remus watched as Sirius would grab girls’ hands and spin them around, giggling with delight, press not-so innocent lips to their blushing cheeks, leaving a trail of misty-eyed and hopeful faces in his wake. 

Remus couldn’t place the anger he felt, watching Sirius with these girls, with his secrets and dramatics. He couldn’t place the deep and irrational sense of betrayal he felt. The audacity that Sirius could drag Remus’s secrets, unwilling to see the light of day, out into the open. Make him spill his guts onto the table and pick through them with a careless curiosity. Lull him into a place of safety and security, guiding him through the labyrinth of his own mind, hand in hand, pulling secrets from his mouth as he pulled him through the castle to the kitchens. The audacity that Sirius could do all of that, and yet, turn around and bury his own. 

Hide them from Remus.

What did Remus really know about Sirius, anyways? He thought bitterly. He never gave anything of himself, instead asking with bold intensity that Remus pour his most guarded thoughts into the space between them. He offered to hold these things for Remus, demanded it, even, but clearly didn’t think Remus was capable of doing the same in return. 

These realisations, piling up over days and weeks, stung him deeply. Made him aloof and distant, yet desperate to capture some of the coveted attention of his best mate. Attention that he was throwing out lavishly towards people who only loved him for his booming laugh and undeniable skills, but who didn’t know about the scars and the fears like Remus did. 

He had spent many nights since Easter laying in his bed and staring blankly up at his hangings, drowning in this new sense of loss, of quiet abandonment. Sirius had stopped waking Remus in the night to go to the kitchens, stopped accompanying him to the library, even stopped taking him for walks in the days before the full moon. He was quieter and more reserved than usual and was spending most of his time with James, sometimes even Peter. 

As he climbed out the portrait hole and straightened up, he heard shuffling behind him and turned to see Lily and Marlene climbing after him. 

“I think you should just rather ask him, Marlene, what’s the worst that could happen?” Lily was insisting in a hushed whisper. 

“Hello.” Remus said, politely as they fell in step beside him. 

Marlene jumped and didn’t respond to Lily. Instead, she turned to Remus with an over enthusiastic, “Hi!” 

Lily subtly rolled her eyes and nodded cooly by way of greeting. 

The three of them walked down to the Great Hall chatting amicably about their potions assignment, Lily finally thawing enough to offer some helpful pointers about working with crushed pearls. Remus spotted Peter and James at the centre of the table and they parted ways, the girls moving to meet their friends at the far end, Marlene smiling and throwing furtive looks over her shoulder as they went. 

Sitting down across from Peter, James whistled appreciatively at him. 

“What?” He asked bemusedly as he reached for an apple. 

“Marlene, huh?” James asked, in a suggestive tone with a dimpled smile and raised eyebrows. 

Remus felt the colour rise in his face, but he wasn’t sure why. 

“What about her?”

“Not my type, is all, but good for you,” James said, still smiling, watching Remus closely. 

“Whose not your type?” Asked Sirius as he plopped down beside James, dropping an arm over his shoulder and reaching for a tomato sandwich. 

“Marlene,” sniggered Peter who poured himself more pumpkin juice. Remus narrowed his eyes and looked between his friends.

“What are you lot talking about?” He asked, nettled, slicing his apple into neat pieces on his plate. 

“Marlene’s been giving Mr Lupin here moon-eyes for weeks now, and they just walked to lunch together,” James explained to Peter and Sirius, as if that would make things clear. 

Remus laid down his knife and stared nonplussed at James. “And?”

“You could do better, I expect, Remus,” Sirius said, “but everyone’s gotta start somewhere, I suppose.” He winked with his jaunty gin and Remus’s stomach lurched unpleasantly. He couldn’t fathom a response for he had no clue what they were talking about. 

“So, do you like her?” Peter asked, leaning onto the table dramatically with a smarmy smile. Remus spluttered around a bite of his apple. 

“I— well— I mean— I like her well enough. She’s helpful in charms, and she always lets me borrow a quill in transfiguration when I forget. What’s not to like?” He looked to his friends with a furrowed brow to see them all smiling slyly back at him. 

“But, do you _ like _ her?” James asked, as if that was somehow more specific. 

“How do you _ mean _?” Remus asked, his voice becoming shrill, his utter confusion mounting. 

Sirius laughed, deep and affectionate, bracing himself on James’s shoulder and Remus only felt irritation for the display. 

“Would you like to do some _ late night studying _ with her?” Peter asked with waggling eyebrows, giggling at Remus’s unwavering bemusement. 

“I mean, her marks are rather good—” He started, seriously, not knowing how else to respond to the question. The three of them burst out in howling laughing, Peter laying his face down on the table and James and Sirius falling on to one another.

Remus narrowed his eyes, looking between the reddened faces of his friends and feeling like a butt of a joke they weren’t letting him in on. He stood abruptly and tried to extricate himself from the bench. 

“No, wait, Remus—” James started, reaching across the table to tug at the sleeve of his lilac sweater, still laughing. “We didn’t mean anything by it, we’re just trying to figure out if you’re interested in Marlene, because she’s clearly taken with you.”

The penny dropped and Remus’s mouth fell in a shocked “O” as he thudded back down onto the bench, staring into James’s kind face. 

“You mean how you like Lily?” He asked, innocently. 

James nearly choked on his own tongue, his laughter morphing to sputtering horror in an effort to deny what he clearly thought to be a heinous accusation. Sirius fell off the bench and onto the floor with roaring laughter, Peter banging his fists on the table, tears in his eyes. 

“I do _ not _ like _ Lily _!” He hissed through clenched teeth, head bent low, as if hiding.

“Well, _ I _ don’t like _ Marlene _,” Remus said shortly, swinging his leg over the bench when the laughter continued and James began hissing for them all to be quiet, looking shiftily up and down the table, ensuring no one heard what Remus had said. 

Remus, full of exasperation and embarrassment, confusion and irritation, left his friends to finish their lunch. 

He heard Sirius’s voice, weak with laughter, say to James, “He got you, mate— He _ got _ you—” 

James’s acidic and muttered response of, “Shut up, Sirius, I swear to _ Godric _—”

A few times Remus had walked into the dorms to hear James and Sirius talking about girls, _ of all things _. About what they wore and who they spent time with, how they looked and how they might feel to touch. 

It made him profoundly uncomfortable. Hot under his clothes, itchy, almost. Like his skin was too tight. Like he didn’t belong. Like he was overhearing something he shouldn’t. Like his friends were turning into people he couldn’t relate to anymore. 

One night, he overheard Sirius telling James that Lily, as a muggleborn, should _ not _ go around without a bra, as it would give people the wrong idea, that “you just don’t know who could take advantage of her.” To which James replied, “Dude, it’s not 1807 anymore, girls could wear whatever the bloody hell they like.” And, Sirius, affronted, grumbled his half-assed objections. 

When they noticed Remus, red faced and wide eyed, they promptly changed the subject to quidditch. 

Most peculiarly of all, he had seen a few Slytherins, older ones, seventh years even, nodding to Sirius in the halls as they passed, nodding to him like an old friend, like an equal. No longer taunting him or casting appraising looks. Even the Slytherin quidditch team had been subdued towards him, much to everyone’s confusion. When James ruffled his hair and asked what Slytherin he was dating, Sirius became quiet and dismissive, defensive and different, muttering a “_ drop it _, James,” in an uncharacteristically serious tone. 

The secrets piled up and Remus felt the ground beneath him shift. Something insidious and unseen cracked the foundations of their bond, and none of them had the words or tools to acknowledge the change. They just let it happen, let it drift them in different directions. Let the undertow take them. 

He skipped lunch, a few weeks before the end of term, finding mealtimes with James and Sirius too difficult as the weeks wore on, with their theatrical antics and endless discussion of Quidditch and girls and things with hidden meanings that he didn’t understand. 

He more often sought the refuge of the library. Sometimes, he studied with Marlene and Peter, sometimes Lily even joined them, every once in awhile Dorcas and Davey came as well. He found he enjoyed Lily quite a lot. She was funny and clever and kind and fair and she drove James to madness, which was endlessly amusing. 

On his way to the library, he ducked into the boys bathroom, one he loved for always being empty. As he came into the large circular tiled room he heard echoing whispers from the far side and saw a skew reflection. He froze mid-step, fingertips touching the wall, ears straining. 

“I— I just don’t know what to do.” Whispered a shaky, scared voice. A rambling sentence, punctuated with stuttering sobs spilling forth from tremulous lips. “I don’t think I can go back next year— I _ can’t _ sleep, I mean, I haven’t slept since Easter— I just keep seeing her face, and… it’s _ sick _ , Sirius, you must know how sick it is that they do this to them— to _ us _ — I don’t know what to _ do _—”

“Cadmus, get it together, mate.” He heard Sirius’s hushed voice, calm, cool, soft. Saw his distorted reflection in the skew mirror. Firm hands gripped into Cadmus Yaxley’s shoulders, holding him upright and stable. “This is how we _ survive _. Get out if you can. I’ve already got something set up for over the summer, and—”

The short Ravenclaw with olive skin and dark hair broke down into fresh sobs, his face buried in his hands. Remus turned on his heel and dashed out of the bathroom, unsure if he was noticed. 

Wandering the isles of the library, books flowing gently past him, he wondered what life Sirius was hiding from them. He wondered if James knew. If he were the only one left out. He wondered if the reality of being friends with a werewolf had finally set in for them. If they thought that made Remus untrustworthy. Unworthy. 

Late that night, tucked into his bed, a book open in his lap and the sounds of Sirius, James, and Peter writing a list of all their favourite dragons and what they would do if they had one, a sudden tapping at the window drew his attention. 

“Is that an owl?” Peter asked, interrupting an argument about Chinese Fireballs and Peruvian Inktails, leaning over to look out the window besides Sirius’s bed. 

“Who’s getting love letters at this hour?” Sirius asked, getting up and striding imperiously towards the window, his silk robe billowing, exposing his stolen Weird Sister’s t-shirt. 

Opening the window, a little grey owl forced its way in and flew directly at Remus, dropping a heavy cream envelope onto his head. The owl crash landed ungracefully on the bed and hooted with indignation. It had an oval face framed with a dark circle, its giant amber ringed eyes looked completely shocked at its own existence, and from where Remus sat, he could see it seemed to be missing a foot. 

“What on earth?” Remus muttered, picking up the envelope and seeing a ministry seal. 

“Why are you getting ministry owls at nine o’clock in the evening on a school night, Mister Lupin?” James asked, askance, hands on his hips, thick framed glasses slipping down his nose. 

“It's from my dad…” He said, seeing the familiar handwriting, 

_ To Remus J Lupin _

_ 2nd year Boys Dorm _

_ Gryffindor Tower _

_ Hogwarts _

His stomach clenched painfully. 

“Go on, then.” Peter encouraged as all three of them climbed onto Remus’s bed, the owl hooting in protest as it tried to get out of their way. 

He sighed, breaking the thick, purple wax seal. 

_ Remus, _

_ Let me just start by apologising. It's been a rough few months without your mum, but that's no excuse. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, and I’m sorry you had to find your own way back to school. _

_ I promise I’m doing better and that things will be better this summer. _

_ The owl is for you. She’s a Southern White Face. We have no idea how she managed to get blown all the way to England but when she turned up at the Ministry with a mangled foot, I knew exactly what to do with her. Her name is Claudia _

_ See you at King’s Cross. _

_ Love, _

_ Dad _

Remus handed the letter off to James and looked up at the owl, who seemed timid and a bit awkward. She seemed to sink back in on herself, eyes impossibly wide, as Remus gently touched the feathers on her head. 

It was the most embarrassing animal he’d ever seen. He loved her instantly. 

______________

Days later, the sun rose slowly, spilling the light of late spring across the lush grounds. Remus sat cross legged in a plushy armchair in the common room, the one beside the tall stained glass window, tucked into the corner. 

The approaching full moon had him tossing and turning in the night and up in the wee hours of the morning, before the sun was even a thought on the horizon. Sirius, his usual companion in the darkest hours, had been scarce and aloof and no longer available to keep him company, so he had to entertain and distract himself. 

He was in his pyjamas, still, rereading _ The Hobbit _for what felt like the thousandth time. At this point, he didn’t even need to read it, he could damn well near recite the whole thing from memory. 

The telltale shuffle of Sirius’s steps on the stone stairs, the smell of his spicy soap, and loud yawn drifted down to Remus before he ever even entered the common room, silk trousers swishing in his wake. Remus’s stomach twisted in a way he couldn’t explain. A new kind of tension he associated with Sirius.

He didn’t look up from his book as Sirius sat down across from him with a sleepy “Morning, Master Lupin.”

His lip twitched. “Morning, King of the Castle,” he replied evenly, not looking up from the yellowing faded pages before him. He had kept his promise of not calling him Master Black anymore, but couldn’t help giving him ridiculous epithets instead when the opportunity presented itself. 

Sirius grinned and rolled his eyes. 

“What are you reading?” Sirius asked after a long silence. 

He held the book up for Sirius to see as his thumb carefully flipped a page. He wasn’t really reading, just distracting himself from the boy before him. The one he had so often sought refuge in, had opened himself up to, but now was only left with an uneasy tension ringing between them. Taught and strained, like a wire. Their magic, uncertain and flighty, contained and stiff. He felt a giant invisible wall had been built up between them, made of secrets and lies, omissions and avoidance. 

“Aren’t you sick of rereading that?” Sirius asked, sounding bored and tired. Distracted as he often was these days. 

“No.” He replied shortly, the question raking across his skin, raising his hackles. 

“Read it to me, then,” Sirius demanded and closed his eyes, nestling back into the plush chair with his knees pulled up to his chest, his robe falling haphazardly open. 

He looked at Sirius a moment, deflating. He saw the tension in his face, even as he tried to relax back into the velvet chair. Saw the defensiveness of his posture, how he hugged himself. Remus sighed and looked down at the page, the words coming easily to him. 

“_ Farewell," they cried, "Wherever you fare till your eyries receive you at the journey's end!" That is the polite thing to say among eagles. _

_ "May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks," answered Gandalf, who knew the correct reply.” _

He read until Sirius’s head tipped down onto his own shoulder and began snoring softly. His arms going limp and his knees slowly slumping away from his body. 

Remus quietly closed the book, but continued speaking, reciting the passage from memory as he pulled the orange afghan off of the chair behind him. 

“_ He is a skin-changer. He changes his skin: sometimes he is a huge black bear, sometimes he is a great strong black-haired man with huge arms and a great beard. I cannot tell you much more, though that ought to be enough— _”

He unfolded his own long legs and tiptoed across the space between them, tossing the blanket over Sirius’s sleeping form, tucking him in. Sirius mumbled. 

“What was that?” Remus smiled, his recitations interrupted, his irritation having long since evaporated.

“I said, he’s an animagus— Beorn is.” He grumbled, pulling the blanket tighter around him, eyes still closed, muttering something about why muggles could write such things, so close to the heart of magic. “Read more.”

“Sure, Summoner of Houselves” he grinned, and picked up his book, again. “Where were we?”

“Bears.” Sirius supplied unhelpfully. 

“Ah, yes. Bears.” He agreed, huffing an endeared laugh. _ “Some say that he is a bear descended from the great and ancient bears of the mountains—” _

“Ancestors are shite.” Mumbled Sirius, midway to a snore.

______________

_ May 16, 1973 _

“Oh, for the love of _ Helga _ , Dragonpox in May! What an utter nightmare— They’ll just have to cancel the last Hogsmeade trip— Puddifoots is a den of communicable diseases _ again— _ I swear on my _ life _…” Madam Pomfrey was pacing the hospital wing, arms full of blankets and and potions as she bustled between beds of moaning and sniffling students. 

Dragonpox had swept through Hogsmead, getting a fair number of students sick, and running Poppy ragged. 

Remus, in his ratty full moon clothes, stood in the fading light of the evening in her office door, waiting for her to take him to his tree, feeling antsy and irritated. The moon wouldn’t rise until early hours of the morning, but he was tired and wanted to sleep. He was almost looking forward to a night of quiet away from everyone, away from Sirius and James and their theatrics, away from Peter and his sullen jealousy. 

Pomfrey threw back a curtain, exposing a green tinged and pock marked Davey Gudgeon, curled in on himself beneath a mountain of blankets. 

“Oh! Mister Lupin! Don’t tell me you’re ill too?” She declared. 

“Uhhh—” He was unsure how to remind her what day it was with the hospital wing so full. 

“Oh, of course!” She smacked her head. She looked exhausted and harassed, the piteous moans of sick children filling the echoing hospital wing. 

“I could— I mean— I could just go alone?” He asked, tentatively not wanting to worry her any more than she needed to be. 

She wiped her hands on her apron and studied him carefully, her eyes soft and concerned. “Will you be alright on your own?” She asked in a quiet, uncharacteristic voice. 

He nodded. 

“Do you remember the spells to lock the door?”

He nodded again. 

She took a deep breath, looking slightly relieved, “Okay, Mister Lupin. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Remus turned on his heel and strode down the hall, but not before Madam Pomfrey pulled back another curtain to assess someone else. Severus’s dark eyes looked out beneath his curtain of black hair, framing his green tinged skin and met Remus’s. His face was set in curious suspicion as Remus looked away and made for the door. 

He replayed his conversation with Madam Pomfrey in his mind, over and over again, trying to see if they had let anything slip, if an eavesdropper would be able to piece it together. When he reached the tree, he took a deep breath and shook himself of his worries. 

“_ Wingardium leviosa _” he said, pointing his wand at a stick and navigating it towards the knot in the bulging root that would freeze the angry, flailing branches. He felt a twinge of pride as he strode down the long tunnel, realising that he was old enough to do this like an adult. As a thirteen year old, he was clever and capable. He didn’t need anyone to hold his hand through this anymore. He could do it on his own. 

______________

Madam Pomfrey kept her promise and met Remus the next evening after the fuller moon had set on the horizon. When they emerged from the tunnel, the grounds were bathed in a deep gold from the sun hanging low on the horizon. As they traversed the rolling laws, the sounds of cheering and jeering reached their ears from the Quidditch pitch, where a high intensity pick-up practice game of quidditch between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff was taking place in preparation for tomorrow’s Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game. 

Remus’s thumb swept the new gashes on his inner wrist as his eyes sought out Sirius and James. Sirius was easy to find, his black hair streaking behind him, a bat held high above his head as he brought it swiftly across the path of an approaching bludger, sending it with great force towards the Hufflepuff seeker, who dove spectacularly out of the way at the last second. He couldn’t see James, but he soon realised why. 

“Remus!” James shouted from up ahead, startling him. 

Madam Pomfrey, clearly not wanting to give Remus any grief or have him deal with unnecessary questions, winked at him and kept walking towards the castle. 

Remus smiled, hands in his pockets, and waited for James, ladened in his squeaking Quidditch gear, to catch up. 

“Why aren’t you at practice?” 

“Pete’s got dragonpox.” James grimaced. 

“Oh, no, not him too.” 

“Yeah, he started turning green last night. I had a hell of a time persuading him to go to the hospital wing. Took me the last forty minutes to get him there, whinging as he was. Made me late.” James looked worried and irritated in equal measure. “But, I can’t afford to get sick! The game is tomorrow, and I can nearly taste the victory!”

He was practically vibrating in his shin guards, and Remus couldn’t help but smile. James was always kind, always going out of his way to help his friends, even if it meant being late to Quidditch practice. 

They fell into step, heading towards the ruckus on the pitch. 

“How was last night?” He asked quietly. 

Remus shrugged. “Poppy sent me on my own, but it was fine.”

James nodded. “I was wondering where you were when I took Peter, he was hoping you’d keep him company.”

Remus shrugged again. The knot in his stomach twisting unpleasantly, but he wasn’t sure why. 

It was only after James swatted his hands away from his face that he realised he was picking an old scar by his ear. 

“Must you?” James asked, irritation lacing his worry. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I didn’t notice.”

“If you do it again, I’m making you hold my hand, and it _ will _be embarrassing.” He warned. 

Remus barked a startled, disbelieving laugh. 

Later, a cheerful Hufflepuff team left the field after being brutally decimated 345 to 6 and Gideon laughed loudly about how they could remain so upbeat in the face of such embarrassing circumstances. 

Remus fell behind the clamouring team, in step with Marlene whom he’d also become quite fond of, and that Hufflepuff with the black hair, Patricia, and her nasally wheeze. Marlene was exuberant and joyful, laughing loudly and touching Remus’s arm often. His eyes found Sirius who had James on his back, yelling “Charge!” as he ran full speed around the group of students, cackling madly. 

He returned his attention back to Patricia, who was telling them her plans to vacation in Iceland with her family over the summer holiday. “The traditional magical system in Iceland is really very fascinating, my gran told me half of all magic folk don’t use wands or go to formal school—”

“Remus!” James was suddenly very close, blocking his way, sounding accusatory and scandalised. 

“What?” He asked, startled, stopped in his tracks. 

“What the bloody hell did I tell you about that?” He scolded, pulling Remus’s hand away from his chin, congealed blood under his thumbnail. 

His cheeks burned in embarrassment as Marlene, Patricia, and a few others close by watched the exchange closely. 

“Shit, I wasn’t paying attention,” Remus said sheepishly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

“Oh, no no!” James said, grabbing Remus’s arm and trying to yank his hand towards him. “I told you the punishment for this transgression—”

“Oh my god, James, no— get out of here—” He pleaded, pulling free and ducking behind Marlene, using her as a barrier. 

“No! Get over here and hold my hand!” James shouted, causing several people to whistle and laugh. 

“Oi!” Sirius yelled, materialising out of nowhere. “Whose hand are we holding?”

“No one! We’re not holding anyone’s hand!” Remus yelled, winding through people, dodging a determined and mad eyed looking James. 

“Sirius!” James yelled, “We have to hold Remus’s hands so he stops picking! Get him!”

“No!” Remus yelled, half laughing, half mortified as he began to run in circles around his curious classmates. James and Sirius stalked him in an unnerving, practised unison. 

Sirius crowed in joy at the prospect of a challenge. “Mr Loopy Lupin! You can run, but you can’t hide!”

“Oh my god— I swear, I’ll stop! Go away!” Remus pleaded, his face splitting in a reluctant grin as he tried to use a third year Hufflepuff as a human shield. He had missed this nonsense, aggravating though it was. 

“That’s not how this works, Remus!” James preened, looking positively feral as he crouched low, ready to pounce. “How else will you learn?!”

Remus had no chance. He wasn’t hardened by a year of Quidditch practice, and he was tired from the full moon. As they closed in, he tried to dart away, to run as fast as he could, but after only four steps he was tackled into the ground, James and Sirius laughing maniacally.

“_ Ouf _! You oafs!” He complained, an elbow in his back, but they weren’t listening. They dragged him off the ground and each gripped one of his hands in theirs, the Quidditch leathers sweaty against his palms. 

Remus moaned and hung his head as the group of students around them broke out in laughter and giggling at his expense. “I hate you both.”

“No, you don’t.” James said, unconcernedly. “What do you think, Sirius?”

“Hmm?” 

James dropped his voice and whispered conspiratorially, ignoring Remus’s squawks of indignation. “You reckon we can publicly humiliate our dear wolf child every time he picks his scars?” 

“I certainly _ do _ , old boy!” Sirius answered with a wink, squeezing Remus’s hand harder as he tried to wriggle free. They were just so _ strong _ , and Remus was so _ tired _. 

He groaned louder as he was led to and through the castle, his head hung low in his walk of shame. They wouldn’t let go of his hands until they were all the way back in the Gryffindor common room, where Sirius dropped it and made a smooth segue to leaning on an armchair, reaching out to tuck a curl behind the ear of a girl two years his senior, making her blush and lean in closer. 

“So, there you go.” James turned to him with a kind smile, squeezing his hand tightly one last time for emphasis. “Stop picking.”

Remus shook his head and turned towards the stairs, his palms sweaty from the attention and leather gloves. “You’re unbelievable!” 

“We love you!” James shouted back. The knot in Remus’s stomach relaxed a bit at the thought. 

______________

In the end, Gryffindor decimated Ravenclaw in the final match. James had scored half a dozen spectacular goals, Sirius and Gideon, a well oiled machine, danced in unison, and Cordelia tore through the air at breakneck speeds. In the final moments of the game, she and the Ravenclaw seeker dove in a dicey game of chicken, snatching the snitch and pulling up, both of them scraping their knees on the turf in their effort to avoid crashing. 

Remus had cheered and shouted along with Lily, Marlene, Dorcas, and Alice, the rest of their house jostling and hugging one another as they all made a mad dash down from the stands and into the pitch. 

James and Sirius were on Fabian and Gideon’s shoulders, being carried towards Dumbledore on the centre pitch, who lifted the coveted Quidditch Cup to Frank. He raised it above his head, yelling and celebrating with the rest, their voices lost in the cacophony from the surging crowd descending on them. 

Back in the common room, Remus sat with Marlene and Lily, playing a loud game of exploding snap, while the rest of the house was in a state of high excitement. An older boy had snuck a few bottles of butterbeer, as well as a bit of muggle scotch, which were now being surreptitiously passed around under the noses of distracted prefects. 

James, still beaming and victorious, wearing the Gryffindor flag that normally occupied the top of the tower, as a cape, plopped down on the sofa beside Remus, throwing an arm over his shoulders. Lily, with the rush of a Gryffindor win outshining even her loathing of James, congratulated him heartily on a game well played along with the rest of them. James ruffled his hand through his hair, trying to appear nonchalant, but his chest swelled noticeably, his smile impossibly wide. He had eyes for no one but Lily, who hadn’t seemed to notice the effect this comment had made on him. 

Remus, getting tired of listening to James try to, repeatedly and not-so-subtly, get Lily’s attention, scanned the room for Sirius. Dean, a fourth year boy, was standing unusually close to Sirius, with Emmaline Vance, a third year with dark curly hair, on his other side. They both wore similarly hopeful and hungry looks. Sirius, who was basking in the glow of innumerable attentions and fawning adoration from the entire house, didn’t seem to mind Dean idly touching his arm, or Emmaline batting her eyelashes and whispering in his ear. 

The sight made his stomach twist and his skin clammy and sweaty. He was a bit hot under his sweater and his hands were damp suddenly. 

“You alright, mate?” James asked, jostling him to attention, handing him a deck of cards. 

Remus shook himself, rubbing his palms together, bewildered by his reactions. “What? Yeah— no, I’m fine. Another game?”

When Remus’s eyes sought Sirius again, he was gone from the common room and Remus couldn’t explain why this annoyed him so much. 

______________

The evening of the leaving feast found James, Peter, and Remus squished on a sofa in the common room, pamphlets for third year classes spread between them. Sirius was pretending to duel Fabian before the fire, a few girls giggling as they watched. They were all a bit subdued, knowing that Gryffindor was last in house points, of which the four of them were largely to blame. Hufflepuff was first, followed by Slytherin, and Ravenclaw in third. It was truly embarrassing. 

“What’s McGonagall playing at?” Asked Peter, his brow furrowed. “I’m thirteen, how am I supposed to know what classes to take for my future?” 

He sounded whiny and tired, overwhelmed and frustrated. He had nearly failed his Charms exam because of his stint in the hospital with dragonpox, and the Potions final was so disastrous that it nearly sent him back to Madam Pomfrey. 

“C’mon, Pete, it’s not so bad. Just pick what sounds most interesting.” James cajoled. 

Peter groaned like a dying whale and Remus cracked an amused smile, the scar by his mouth pulling in a familiar fashion. 

“What are you going for?” James asked him. 

Remus shrugged, his eyes scanning the list. He sort of agreed with Peter. It seemed like too big a commitment for a thirteen year old to choose the course of their magical education. But, he reasoned to himself, he was doing his transformations all on his own, now. Eating more and more like a normal person. He hadn’t even been picking his scars as much as usual, nor did he need company late in the night to distract him from the weight of his own existence anymore. He thought, perhaps, he was ready for this responsibility. He was practically an adult. 

James stood abruptly, jostling him from his mulling. 

“Evans!” He greeted, too loudly. 

Lily barely repressed an exasperated sigh. Barely. Ever since the match, James had been chasing the high of being in Lily’s good graces and did not know when to take a step back. It only ended up irritating Lily more, which made James even more insufferable. 

“What are you signing up for next year?”

She looked at him a moment, arms crossed, eyes calculating as if waiting to see if he was asking seriously or setting her up for some sort of joke. Seeming to decide it was safe she answered, “Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Classical Oikomancy. I’m trying to see if McGonagall will let me take Divination as well.”

“Oikomancy?” James asked, surprised. “Why would you wanna take Oikomancy, all you learn is how to clean the house and set tables. It's a useless class.”

“Not everyone grew up with magic, Potter.” She retorted, offended. “What, like you would know how to use a microwave?”

“A _ what _?” James demanded. 

“Exactly.” She looked smug. 

“What does that have to do with anything?!”

With an air of explaining to a troll that one plus one equals two, she said, “Oikomancy is the study of wizarding culture. It's for muggleborns to learn how to get by in the wizarding world because we didn’t grow up with magic. Cleaning and cooking with magic, formal wizarding traditions— you can take that all for granted because your mum’s been showing you and doing it for you your whole life.”

“Have fun, Evans.” Gideon interrupted from his chair where he was giving Sirius tips on his duelling form. “Professor Abbott is a piece of work.”

“She can’t be any tougher than McGonagall.” Lily dismissed. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” he assured, “you’ll learn lots, fascinating stuff, too, but she will fail you. My girlfriend is in her class and she _ hates _ her.”

Remus had been listening, tapping his muggle pencil on his signup sheet when Lily finally got bored with James and walked away.

“Well, if she’s taking Oikomancy, then I’m taking Muggle Studies.” He said, decisively, as if it were a competition of some sort. “What do you say?”

“I don’t think it’ll make her like you any better.” Remus snorted. 

“Shut up— that's not— how _ dare _— UHG!” James sputtered and Peter cackled. 

“Sirius, what are you doing?” Peter asked, just as Sirius, frustrated with not being able to disarm Fabian, dropped his wand and tackled him. 

Gideon cheered and Remus rolled his eyes. He read through the list again. 

_ Divination: Learn the art of divinatory and prophetic practices. To know the future is to know thyself. Professor Navarro. _

_ Ancient Runes: The noble writing system of time-honoured magical languages and ancient spell work. Professor Babbling. _

_ Muggle Studies: Understanding the behaviours and actions of muggles in our world today so that we may coexist and blend in. Professor Figg. _

_ Arithmancy: Study the magical properties of numbers and how they build the world around us. Professor Vector. _

_ Care of Magical Creatures: Learn basic to advanced magical animal handling with hands on lessons. Professor Kettleburn. _

_ Elenkhrancy: Question everything. Professor Shafiq _

_ Oikomancy: Polishing young minds and new magic for life in esteemed Wizarding Society. Professor Abbott _

Sirius eventually emerged from the floor after being put in a headlock, dishevelled and panting. He reclined down on the arm of the sofa and leaned over Remus’s shoulder to read the list. 

“You couldn’t pay me to take Divination or Oikomancy. What a load of rubbish. Although, apparently, I supposedly have some sort of seer in my family line. Though it's been disputed— some say she was just raving mad.”

“Which do you think it was?” Remus asked, not looking up from the list. 

“Oh, she was off her rocker, I’m sure. But, _ seer _ is a much more respectable title, than _ spell damaged cousin. _ Looks much better on the family tree.”

Remus snorted and ticked off Care of Magical Creatures, Ancient Runes, and Elenkhrancy. 

“Elenkhrancy?” Sirius asked, yanking Remus’s sign up sheet away from him. “I’ve never even heard of that. What is it? What kind of description is _ that _?”

“Sounds interesting,” Remus said, intrigued and drawn to the mystery of it. 

“Oh, Prof Shafiq is amazing!” Frank piped up as he was passing. “The final exam every year is a single question that you have to discuss.”

“What kind of class is it?” James asked. 

“It’s like the philosophy of magic— or rather the ethics?” He said, sounding like he wasn’t even really sure what the class was about. 

“No, it's more like the theory of magic,” Gideon said. “It’s fascinating— and very little homework.”

Everyone _ooohed_ and immediately marked their papers. 

Peter signed up for Care of Magical Creatures, Muggle Studies, and Elenkhrancy, wanting the easiest classes possible. James went for Arithmancy, Muggle Studies, and Elenkhrancy, out of spite. Sirius for Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, and Elenkhrancy, wanting as much free time as humanly possible. 

The next morning they were ushered down to the Hogsmead station where they boarded the train for muggle London. Sirius wished them all a hasty and distracted goodbye as he smoothed his hair in a neat ponytail, a grouchy house elf slinking towards them from the shadow behind a large potted display of dying begonias. James made them all promise they’d write as much as possible, hugging them tightly before they were all pulled in opposite directions. 

______________

_ July 16, 1973 _

Blearily, Remus woke, naked and tired, bathed in the early morning summer sun streaming through his bedroom window. He groaned sleepily when he heard a gentle knock at the door. 

“You up, bud?” Came the familiar, gruff voice of his dad. 

“Yeah.” He answered in scratchy tones, looking around him to see if his pyjamas had survived the night. The tattered strips lay in a heap in the corner. He sighed. “I need pants.”

His dad cracked the door and tossed a bundle of clean clothes in and Remus caught it gratefully. 

“I’m coming in.” He said as Remus was pulling his t-shirt over his head. 

Lyall had really tried to keep his promise since Remus had gotten home. He came back from the office at a decent hour nearly every evening, and he had only once come home smelling of brandy. The cupboards had been regularly stocked and Remus had yet to run out of crunchy peanut butter. 

He had spent the first three weeks of the holiday walking on eggshells, waiting, waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him, waiting for the shoe to drop. 

But, it hadn’t happened yet.

Pushing into the room, his dad carried a little tray balancing precariously with chocolate milk and apple slices, cubes of cheese and a sliced bell pepper— his favourite snacks. 

“Thanks, dad.” He said, reaching with relief for the chocolate milk, noticing as he did a small vial on the tray. He eyed it suspiciously as he drank the milk. 

“They seem like— like, it’s getting better.” He said awkwardly, tentatively. “Is it getting better?” 

Remus shrugged and nodded his head a bit. They were getting easier, marginally, it was true, but he wouldn’t know if he’d call it _ better _. 

“Good, good. That’s good. Are you ready for today?”

Remus nodded, feeling pleased he hadn’t acquired too many new scratches. It would make his glamour and make up job easier. He’d been exchanging frequent owls about the Ministry’s career day with Peter and James since he’d gotten home, putting Claudia through her paces. Peter was overjoyed to be going to career day with his mom’s new boyfriend, Jean Parlo, in the Pest Advisory Bureau. James was disappointed that he wasn’t going because his dad worked from home, a potioneer’s workshop in the cellar, even though he frequently consulted for the Ministry’s Ludicrous Patents and Potion Regulation departments. Sirius hadn’t responded to a single letter since they left school, and Remus, at the end of June, had stopped writing. 

“What’s this?” He asked, nodding to the vial. 

“It’s ministry approved.” His dad assured, quickly. “I got it from that nice nurse who took care of your mum. I thought, after last month, maybe you should have a better healing potion.”

Remus tentatively uncapped and sniffed it carefully. He was instantly soothed as he recognised the potion, one he took nearly every month with Madam Pomfrey. No more shoddy potions or sketchy spells, and he smiled. 

“Thanks, dad.” He tipped the potion back in a quick movement. 

His dad stood and waved his wand, calling all of Remus’s furniture and things back into the room. In a flourish of wand work, his room looked back to normal, as if nothing had ever happened. 

“Get dressed, we have to leave in forty minutes.” He smiled, and walked back out the door. “No dawdling!”

______________

In all the years of Lyall Lupin working at the ministry, Remus had never been there. He had never seen the grand, golden atrium, the fountain of magical brethren, nor the rows and rows of floos lining the walls. He was filled with a confusing mixture of excitement and irritation. Why had it taken his dad so long to bring him?

But, stepping onto the lift with his dad’s hand firmly on his shoulder was all the salve he needed in that moment. 

“Morning, Lupin!” Called a short, jittery little warlock in purple satin robes. 

“Morning, Stebbins.” His dad greeted, hand tightening slightly on Remus’s shoulder. 

“Oh, and is this your young lad? There’s so many bright eyed kids wandering the halls today! Simply wonderful!” He exclaimed with an overenthusiastic grin, reaching for Remus’s hand.

He nodded, the man’s papery skin rough against his sweaty palm as they were introduced.

Stebbins’s eyes lingered on the scars on Remus’s exposed wrist and he silently cursed himself for forgetting to cover them. He had glamoured his face and neck, and wore long sleeves despite the warmth of the summer, but had forgotten his hands. 

Luckily, the lift jostled to a stop and his dad politely hustled them out into the powdery lilac carpeted hall, lined with muted wood panelled walls and brass gas lamps. 

Ahead, he heard the familiar voice before he saw him. Sirius was laughing jovially, dressed in formal robes over slick black trousers and dragonhide boots, exiting an office, with an older, distinguished looking man in similarly sleek black robes with many gold embellishments. 

“Very well, young Master Black! I must say I was impressed with the way you handled that whip— those Short-snouts didn’t stand a chance!”

“It’s all in the wrist, sir.” Sirius was smarming, an infectious smile on his face, flicking his wrist emphatically. The old man wheezed out an appreciative laugh.

“I knew you’d be a good fit, I just knew it! Olivander was right about you.”

“Good morning, Mister Parkinson.” His dad greeted, drawing their attention. 

Sirius let out a startled “Remus!” when he saw them, pure and unadulterated excitement, overflowing with fondness, Sirius’s grin big and wide and consuming. Remus cracked a smile, his building resentment and irritation suspended as he saw his friend and realised with startling ferocity how much he ached with missing him. 

But, the moment was short lived. Sirius quickly and smoothly buried his excitement, replaced it with that cool indifference he had become so used to over the last few months, and just as soon as it had gone, the resentment and irritation crashed back over him.

“Oh, Lupin! My good man, come and say hello to young Sirius Black— I swear he’ll be running this department right out of Hogwarts in a few years, mark my words! The things he can do with the Welsh Greens already! Didn’t even need the clankers.”

A spasmed shadow crossed his dad’s face in an instant, but was quickly smoothed away, just as Sirius’s exuberance had been. 

“I dare say you two must know one another?” The stuffy man asked, looking expectantly between them. Remus nodded, mouth halfway to an answer before Sirius said, “Yes, of course, we share a dorm at school.” 

Remus’s eye twitched. 

“Very good, very good. Well then, Remus is your name? Well, Remus, I’m sure you’ll enjoy your day with your father. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is full of excitement! Come along, Master Black. We’ve got several meetings to attend before we head back out to the reserve tonight. A team from St. Mungo’s is meeting us here and we’ve got to arrange for their research team to get training in medical grade specimen sampling, and it won’t do to be late, before showing the half wits how it’s actually done on a real thing.” He guffawed, rolling his eyes, steering Sirius away. 

Remus watched as Sirius seemed to brim with excitement, lobbing question after question at Mr. Parkinson, obviously thrilled with the prospect of more afternoon hours amongst the dragons. 

His dad’s job turned out to be quite boring, filled with paperwork and tedious filing systems, bland descriptions of animal complaints and legal heavy documents. He did a few coffee runs, bumping into a frantically overjoyed Peter at one point, who talked a million miles a minute about doxies and poltergeists. Then, he ran into a nervously overwhelmed Dorcas asking him if he knew where the loos were at another. Frank Longbottom was there, as well as a few Ravenclaws and Slytherins sprinkled into the proceedings. It seemed the ministry was scattered with random and various classmates, but none of them seemed to be muggleborn. 

Coming back to his dad’s desk after the fourth coffee run, he asked, “Dad?”

“Mm?” His dad didn’t look up from his filing. 

“How do muggleborns get exposure to the ministry?

“What?” He asked, sounding confused.

“I mean, if the only students who get to come to career day are kids of ministry employees, how do any of the muggleborns get a chance to come?”

Before his dad could answer, there was a snort of laughter from the cubicle next door. An older woman, draped in beige robes, accentuated with a wide, black patent leather belt and equally as dramatic winged eyeliner, leaned over the divide. 

“They don’t.” She winked. “It’s _ almost _ as if it's by design.”

“Thank you, _ Roberta _.” His dad said through gritted teeth, and she shrugged smugly before walking away, a armful of files teetering precariously. He sighed heavily, watching her retreat with obvious irritation. 

“Is that true?” Remus asked, disturbed at such a bold show of bigotry. 

“It’s an open secret, yes.” His dad admitted, his voice laced with a heavy emotion. “It’s the same reason I haven’t gotten a promotion or pay raise since I married your mum.” He said, as he ran a wrinkled hand through stringy hair. “It’s the same reason they’re talking about passing laws that prevent underage children from performing magic outside of school— as it would only really affect muggleborns living in non-magic homes.” 

He huffed an unamused laugh before saying, “It’s the same reason your mate, young Sirius Black, will probably be my boss one day. And it’s the same reason I’ve waited so long to bring you to work.”

His dad didn’t look angry anymore, if anything, he looked sheepish and defeated. As if he was resigned with the way of the world. A world in which he was punished and systematically disenfranchised for marrying a muggle. A world in which his son was in danger for being who he was. 

A world in which he was a part of, and yet, not. 

Remus didn’t respond for a long while, before asking in a low voice, not wanting to be overheard by Roberta, again. “Why did you marry mum?”

His dad looked up, his surprise at the question melting into a bittersweet smile. “Because she was all the magic I ever needed.” 

Remus’s thumb caught the scar on his hand and he took a deep breath when his dad’s quill began to scratch against his parchment again. 

On his fifth coffee run, waiting for a new pot to percolate, he heard whispers from a nearby cubicle. 

“With the way you’re handling those dragons, fearless as you are with that whip, boy, you could come with on a werewolf round up, you know.”

“Oh?” He heard Sirius’s voice, dancing on the edge of cool disapproval and genuine curiosity. 

“Yes, indeed, we’ve been tipped off that Greyback has been spotted in the south of Wales with his pack.”

Remus picked up the newly filled carafe of coffee and began to pour it into a mug, his heart starting to race.

“And, who is Greyback?” 

“Well, he’s the monster who’s been going around and biting children— the Lupin boy’s seem to have healed well enough, don’t know how it's afflicted him, but— you say you’re friends?”

“Uhh—”

Suddenly, Remus didn’t seem to have a body anymore. He was a swarm of restless bees trapped under tight, scarred skin. It wasn’t until someone shrieked in pain that he came violently back to himself, sweating and stuttering out an apology, a broken coffee pot clutched in his hand. Davey Gudgeon, wincing, covered in scalding coffee, moaned feebly and tried to dry his robes. 

“First the stairs, now this— this place is a nightmare, Remus, I swear— career day, what bullocks—” He was whining and Remus couldn’t really place what he was saying. 

“S—sorry, Davey, the coffee— I wasn’t— sorry, mate—” He mumbled incoherently as Davey tried to tell him his woes about how dangerous the Ministry was, fraught with danger at every turn, something about a rogue lift trapping him and an angry house elf with the cleaning crew needing to rescue him. 

“Watch it, Gudgeon!” He heard Sirius calling behind him, laced with amusement and exasperation as he heartily slapped Davey on the back. “You’re supposed to drink the coffee, not wear it!”

Remus turned away abruptly, the broken coffee pot still held tight in his hands, unable to face Sirius, leaving Davey to continue ranting behind him. He didn’t remember the walk back to his dad’s office, but suddenly he was standing in front of him, eyes wide, shaking. 

As soon as his dad looked towards him, he jumped up from his seat, “Remus? What is it? What’s wrong?” Strong hands gripped his shoulders and he was being examined frantically for injury. “Was someone rude to you?”

“Tell me about Greyback.” Remus croaked and his dad’s face went white as a sheet. He looked around, surveying the area for eavesdroppers before pulling a shell shocked Remus down the hall and into a small, empty office. 

His dad rubbed his hands over his face, regret etched in every line. “Greyback was the werewolf who bit you when you were five.”

“I know that, but, but—” Remus was nearly hyperventilating, fear licking his insides, stuttering out half formed thoughts, tears building in his eyes. “But— but why would they— why are they rounding up— why would they arrest them— it’s not their fault they’re werewolves, that they bite people— it’s not my fault— I can’t help it— I don’t want to hurt anyone—”

“Remus— Remus, breathe. Come on.” His dad was jostling him to attention, taking deep breaths. “Bud, no one is coming after you, you’re safe. Greyback is a bad person. That's why they’re after him. Him and his pack aren’t innocent people that happen to be werewolves. They’re bad people who are using their lycanthropy as a weapon. Not all werewolves are like that. You’re not like that. Okay? You’re safe, Remus.”

“But— but— it was an accident. I was bitten by accident—” he insisted. His entire childhood he had felt nothing for pity for the werewolf that had bitten him, knowing as he did that during a transformation he had no choice, no control. The image of the hissing cat swam across his mind and he felt nauseous at the idea that someone would willingly _ choose _ to do that. 

“No, Remus,” His dad sighed again, the lines of his face deepening, his shoulders sagging. He looked older, suddenly, like he’d aged 10 years since they entered the office. 

“It wasn’t an accident. But, let’s not talk about it here.” He insisted. “I’ll tell you about it tonight when we get home, okay? Take a deep breath. You’re okay. Why don’t you go find your friends from school. Go to the canteen. We still have an hour or two left before we leave.”

Remus, unable to argue in his current state, took a few shuddering breaths and tried to rally himself. _ Don’t think about it, _he chanted as he remembered the hesitation in Sirius’s voice when asked if they were friends.

_ Don’t think about it, _ he urged himself. The thought of Sirius with a whip, out on the hunt with unknown Ministry wizards, chasing down people like him like he chased a bludger with a bat, hunger in his eyes, haunting him. 

He rallied himself before nodding to his father, giving him a weak smile. 

_ Don’t think about it. _

“I’m gonna go find Peter.” He finally said, clinging to the idea of his friend like a lifeline. 

“Good, good.” His dad declared with false normalcy. Returning the weak smile that did not reach his eyes.

He turned from the office, hands stuffed into his pockets, feet carrying him towards the lifts. 

He had only made it halfway down the hall when a hand shot out and yanked him sideways into another empty office. 

Startled and confused, Remus was being squeezed tightly, the smell of dragon leather and spicy soap strong in his nostrils. 

“Remus!” Sirius exclaimed in a hushed whisper. 

Remus returned the hug, a waring mixture of anger and resignation writhing in him.

“Sorry I haven’t written, mate.” He apologised, pulling away, a genuine smile gracing his often haughty and patrician features. “I’ve been shadowing at the Eryri-Meirionnydd Indigenous Costal Dragon Research Centre and Ecological Frontier since we left school. It’s been amazing! How’s working with your dad? How’s your summer?”

Sirius’s infectious joy was melting his brain, and Remus felt like he was experiencing some sort of emotional whiplash, going from one extreme emotion to another. He was embarrassingly pleased that Sirius had sought him out, and yet furiously angry at being ignored and tossed aside the way he had been. It was almost as if Sirius were embarrassed to be seen with him, and he felt mortified as his eyes stung a bit. 

“Fine. It’s been fine.” He lied, unable to look Sirius in the eye, hands still shoved in his pockets, nails digging into his palms, trying to bite back the surge of emotion. “I was going to go find Pete.”

“Oh, I think he just left with what’s his name, I ran into him just now— they’re off to go deal with a magical rodent infestation somewhere, he seemed excited. Did you see Davey?”

“What? Oh, yeah I did.” Remus said, deflating with the information that Peter wasn’t there to distract him. 

Sirius was laughing, either not noticing Remus’s turmoil, or tactfully ignoring it. “Saw Davey fall down a flight of stairs, and not two hours later, get stuck in one of the lifts to the DoM. The Ministry’s maintenance elves were so mad. Kid’s a right menace to himself and others.”

Remus huffed a reluctant laugh, looking down at Sirius’s new dragon hide boots under his crisp, pressed robes. He wasn’t ready to let go of his anger, but Sirius was so hard to be mad at. “I spilled coffee all over him, by accident. Poor sod.”

Sirius was weak with laughter, hand bracing on Remus’s shoulder. “Poor sod, indeed.”

“So—” Remus asked carefully with a false nonchalance he didn’t feel. “You’re going on werewolf round ups, now?” 

Sirius looked a little guilty, still trying to maintain his smile. Seeming to try and make light of it all. 

“Well, no, of course not— it’s just—”

“You just don’t want them to know we’re friends, then—”

Suddenly it was Sirius who couldn’t look at Remus, who felt the weeks and months of tension between them rising like the tides. 

“No, no, Remus, of course not. It’s just— this is the only way I can stay out of the house, mate. I have to play their games to survive, is all. And, the dragons are a much better way to spend my summer than with Walburga at yet another stuffy summer soiree— you get it, right?”

“Yeah, sure.” Remus capitulated tenuously. He did see. But it still didn’t feel good. “Of course.” He sighed, giving up his anger and casting about for anything else to talk about. “How are the dragons?” 

Sirius preened and pulled something from his back pocket, shaking them in Remus’s face.

“I got fingerless gloves!” He nearly yelled, joy writ pure across his face. “We work from 06:00 to 22:00, and you should see the magic I get to use! Remus, it’s so cool!”

They chatted for nearly an hour, the knot in Remus’s chest easing over long minutes of Sirius’s soothing voice washing over him. Making him forget, momentarily, about what his father had told him, what he would learn later that night. He considered, briefly, sharing his worries with Sirius, but was afraid, afraid of opening the door, afraid of losing his shaky grip on his composure. He knew Sirius wouldn’t reciprocate and he did not want their exchange to be one sided. 

They chatted and laughed and jostled and things were just starting to feel normal between them when a disapproving Mister Parkinson found them giggling madly about Davey Gudgeon stubbing his toe loudly down the hall. 

“Ah! There you are, Sirius, come along. We must get back to the sanctuary. Perkins will be waiting for you.”

Sirius straightened up quickly and nodded before turning to Remus, pointedly determined, “Write me more, Remus, I’ve missed your owls. Claudia is a riot.” And, he winked. 

Remus rolled his eyes and repressed a grin, stuffing his hands back into his pockets, watching them retreat. “As you wish, young Dragon Trainer.”

______________

The smell of scotch stung Remus’s nostrils as his dad poured out a tumbler full. No ice. His ministry robes had been quickly discarded to the arm of the sofa as they walked in the door, a bottle of dark liquid and a thick bottomed tumbler hurtled towards them from the kitchen as they sat down. The act did not endear Remus to the conversation they were about to have. It seemed like a dark portent. 

Lyall lit a cigarette before looking up at Remus on the other sofa, considering. He pointed his wand towards the kitchen and summoned a second tumbler and poured half as much as his own before sliding it towards his son. “You’re a man, now. You can drink a man’s drink.”

Remus didn’t know what to feel as he lifted the stout glass and held it in his lap. He watched his dad carefully, uncertainly. Lyall lifted his glass and extended it towards Remus, indicating that he should do the same. They silently cheers’ed. Remus lifted the glass to his lips and let the astringent stinging liquid touch his tongue. He grimaced and shivered, trying not to sputter violently as the acrid drink slipped down his throat. 

Lyall swigged half the tumbler in a swift motion, not watching his son struggle with a sip of scotch. 

“Do you know why our family name is Lupin?” he asked as Remus tried to take a second tentative sip. It made his tongue somehow burn and feel numb at the same time. 

“No, but I always thought it was a bit weird, all things considered.” Remus huffed and took a third sip. 

“Familiars aren’t common in English wizarding tradition, anymore, but they used to be. It’s why Hogwarts lets you take cats to school. Used to be able to take other animals. Dogs, for instance. Some people had unicorns or dragons. Wolves. They changed the rules though, when kids started getting hurt. Cats and toads seemed safe. Owls are practical, you know.”

Remus nodded, taking another sip, his limbs feeling warm and loose. The burn on his tongue, lessening.

“Our folk originally came from the North East where it was once all wild forest, full of wolves. This was hundreds of years ago, before the Ministry, before organised systems of magic. Anyways, the people in our family, your grandad, his dad, and so on, either had wolves as their familiars, their Patronus, or as their animagus form. It’s part of our history.” 

“What happened?” 

“Time.” His dad shrugged, down the rest of his drink and pouring another. “Lupin is a legacy of who we used to be. It’s just a name. Like any other.”

They were quiet a while. The history lesson was interesting, sure, but it didn’t explain Greyback. It felt like he was stalling. 

“Why did Greyback attack me?” He finally asked, when the silence stretched and the cigarette burned down. 

Lyall flicked the ash into his mum’s crystal tray and brought the tumbler up to his lips again, his eyes dark and downcast. “I want you to know that your mum made me a better person. You made me a better person. I was a right shit head before, and it took me a long time to get right, even after you were bitten.”

Remus was silent. His dad, with less coordination, leaned over to top up Remus’s glass. A little more than before. He waited. 

“I drafted a bit of anti werewolf legislation when you were about three.” He breathed out, rubbing his eyes in a tired sort of way. “It said that employers were able to actively discriminate against werewolves, as the condition can be such a liability to businesses around the full moon, losing them productivity. Or, so that was what the bill had said. In reality, I believed, as did many, that werewolves were inherently violent and untrustworthy creatures. That they were not worth our time, support, or resources. That they were a dangerous drain on our small economy.”

The grandfather clock ticked loudly in he unnatural silence and Remus couldn’t place any of his swirling thoughts and feelings.

“Greyback, he used to be an outspoken werewolf rights activist, protesting with others outside the ministry, constantly threatening to break the statute of secrecy for equal rights. He was a menace and a constant thorn in the Ministry’s side. Drove us nuts. And, over time, he started to use more and more guerilla tactics to get our attention. Before I drafted that bill he had already begun to use his lycanthropy as a weapon, which fueled the flames of anti werewolf sentiment.”

He threw back the rest of his tumbler and lit another cigarette. Remus’s insides ceased to exist and he felt numb, his dad’s words washing over him in horrible unrelenting waves. 

“About half a dozen muggle kids had been turned, but the Ministry paid no mind. They were muggles, after all.” He snorted, unkindly, bitter and resentful. 

“I thought I was protecting us. Wizards. Magical folk. I thought we would be safer without them looming over us. Away from us. When Greyback found out I was the one who penned that bill, making it impossible for him to work, to earn a living in the magical world, no muggle skills to get by with, he made a public statement, threatening us. I didn't take it seriously. I thought, he’s madder than a hatter, what could he possibly do to us? Our house was protected with magic and we were unplottable.”

“Turns out, people will rat you out quicker than a flash if they think their kids are in danger. Someone at the ministry told him where to find us. Snuck in through your window. Might’ve killed you if I hadn’t gotten there in time.”

Remus let out a shaky breath. Anger and resentment rising in him like bile. He wanted to shout, to throw his tumbler across the room, rampage and flip the coffee table. Whatever shred of his robbed childhood was left, withered in the light of the truth of his condition. His own father had done this to him, with his own petty bigotry and rotten beliefs. He felt the last dregs of respect he had for his dad burn away like the crumbling ash of his mum’s muggle cigarettes. 

By the time Remus finished his glass, his dad had nearly finished the bottle. He stood on uncoordinated legs, head swimming, heart heavy. He went to his room, leaving his dad, slumped and quiet on the couch, drowning in his own guilt, to take care of himself for once. 

It was a quiet summer, after that. 


	9. Hebridean Blacks

A shadow passed above Sirius as he crested one of the low rolling hills of the western grasslands, the landscape spread before him in greens and silvers that shimmered and swayed in the summer breeze that swept the lowland country. 

Wales was like that. Wide. Soft. Endlessly rolling away. Cut apart by rocky river beds and hidden valleys between the grassy hills. Empty. Vacant. Open. 

It would’ve been a quiet countryside, for there were no people. Quiet, save for the wind that seemed to constantly tumble along between the endless green and the bright blue, so often host to perfect, thick clouds that would swim across the sky. No, the wind was constant, strong enough to pull the tendrils of Sirius’s long hair this way and that across his face, to keep his skin from burning hot in the sunshine and loud enough to drown away the voices of men at the tops of the hills. The wind was unceasing. 

Or, it had been for the two months Sirius had lived on the reserve. 

Standing there, beneath the swift shadow that Sirius by now had learned could not be a cloud, he breathed deeply and closed his eyes.

A screeching, keening, grating sound rent the air, parting the wind, and seemed to rumble low through the very rock soil on which Sirius stood, and he smiled, lips parted, laughter tumbling out of him, shaken out of him by the noise that had been loud enough to drown the endless gale.

A gigantic Hebridean Black glided high above him, calling out across the grassland, rolling through the sky, wings wide and resplendent and glorious on the summer slipstreams that came from the north and swept the country clean. Massive and glittering in the sunlight, scales of deepest black, so iridescent and captivating. Hot and molten and glorious. 

Sirius watched the dragon glide and land on a similar rise several kilometres away, flattening the long grass beneath it, perfectly and beautifully unreal against the emptiness of the grassy sea and the relentless sky. As if it didn’t belong. As if it couldn’t have belonged. 

“Aye, that one’s a right cunt, she is. Biggest thing in the reserve and she well knows it.” Turner’s voice was full of a wheeze as he crested the top of the hill behind Sirius, having to yell a bit over the wind, but, they were used to that by now. “She killed the Short Snout that used to nest there last year. Was an epic battle between the two of them. Ya woulda’ shat yourself, kid. Fire all night and day. Never ‘eard of anythin’ else like it ‘afore. The noise of it.” 

Turner lit a worn pipe of a yellow, golden wood and drew on it, the end held fast in the few remaining teeth in the back of his jaw, pulling the wiry hair of a scant moustache and beard up and back. He fished in the pocket of his oversized greatcoat, patched and frayed and dirty, a coat that once upon a time had been green and soft like the whispering, swaying hills around them. 

The two of them watched the great dragon and Sirius couldn’t stop himself from smiling. His chest was full. He was brimming with this endlessly happy feeling. Like he was basking in the glory of this place. As if he’d been revived by it, feeding him, piling up in him. The sun on his skin and the wind in his hair and the rocks beneath his feet all together painting him in the great wide sea of grass, the endless green. Nothing else mattered but the moment and the way he wanted to drink it in. Swim in it. Bathe himself in the power and the beauty and the wind that lifted everything from his skin. 

“She’s got a clutch of eggs that side. This is as close as we can get without a personal invitation through the fiery gates of hell. Shunpike will tell you. She damn near got him just ‘afore you got ‘ere.” 

He drew on the pipe again, though the smoke was whipped away from them both by the wind. Turner coughed and spluttered a bit. Sirius bit back a laugh. Shunpike was an idiot, that was true. Young and full of himself, like Sirius. The two of them had snuck to the hill just to the east of the dragon the night before last. Turner had been fast asleep. 

They watched the dragon circling the hilltop, scratching the earth, flattening it down, occasionally lighting small fires with huffy, irritated snorts. Eventually, she curled herself tight around where they had guessed the eggs were, tucking her massive head beneath the wide scales of her tail, her giant back to them. 

“C’mon kid, Dowd will be making lunch.” Turner pulled his coat around himself and marched back into the wind. After a last gaze at the sleeping beast, Sirius joined him. They both made their way back down to the valley below, toward the small cabin on the banks of the slowly eddying river that marked one of the central outposts of the reserve. 

Eryri-Meirionnydd Indigenous Costal Dragon Research Centre and Ecological Frontier was only forested on the far eastern boundary, where a little stretch of indigenous woodland helped shield the entrance to the vast rolling wilderness from the public eye and helped create a dense magical barrier to the muggle population that sometimes wandered in for a bit of a hike, or whatever it was they did in there. 

Sirius had nearly run headfirst into one on his first day, when he was worried about being late for his internship orientation, having gotten his floo address slightly wrong and ending up in a tea shop in Bath for several very confusing and rather tense minutes. His father’s contact in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creates, Mr. Parkinson, had ended up being even later than Sirius, and had clapped him on the back jovially, introducing him to the team of dragon keepers that he’d been staying with for the whole summer, Turner, Shunpike and Dowd. 

That had been the third week in June, just after the end of his second year at Hogwarts, and several months after everything, well, nearly everything, had changed. 

Since returning from Ishtar, his father had treated him differently. Spoke to him often. Even asked him what he wanted to do with his life, where he saw himself heading. What goals he had. It had been in the context of what Sirius was going to do for the family name, of course, but it was as if suddenly Sirius had become a person in his father’s eyes. Someone who could think and decide for himself. Someone who mattered. 

It was immensely confusing. Disorienting. Flabbergasting. Sirius had never known his father to do anything but treat him like a child, and, well, now he didn’t. Now, it seems, since Ishtar, he was a man? Overnight. Just so. 

He had written his father back in the most polite custom he could muster, as if on tenterhooks, waiting for the cruelty and the spite, saying that he wanted more experience in the Ministry, wanted to get to know more about the various departments and positions of power within it. Sirius wanted to work. 

In reality, Sirius wanted to stay as far away from Grimmauld Place as he could, with it’s great black ironwood doors and the spiteful way in which Kreacher watched him. He wanted away from the big, round eyes of Regulus and the way he was already draped in emerald green and silver, small as he was, standing always in the gaze of his mother, sharp and keen. 

He was confused and disoriented by the good graces in which he found himself with his father, but just beyond that, in the shadowed halls and elegant sitting rooms of Grimmauld Place, he could almost hear the boiling, simmering resentment of his mother, waiting for him to drift back within her grasp. And here, here was the perfect excuse for him to get away from the house, out into the world. 

To his surprise, his father had arranged an internship with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures’s Committee on the Welfare and Protection of Draconic Species in the British Isles. 

Well, it wasn’t that surprising. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had long been a seeder position for more powerful ones higher up in the Ministry, and several department heads had gone on to make successful bids for the Minister job itself, with the Goblin Liaison Office and the Office of Experimental Research with Magical Creatures being of significant and heady political influence. 

It was in this second office that his father had attempted to secure a position for Sirius, though when Mr. Parkinson had enquired as to what Sirius envisioned himself doing at the ministry, Sirius had only barely garnered enough courage to mention his passing fascination with dragons. And that, well, that was how he had ended up at the reserve. 

Despite his re-allocation to a little desired and decidedly blue collar research outpost, his father hadn’t been subtle about his desire for Sirius to make a good impression. To be respectful, courteous and cunning while forging ties that would hopefully carry him much further than his N.E.W.T.s ever could. 

It didn’t take Sirius long to also realise that this particular department was a holdout of purebloods and their particular brand of wizarding supremacy, which also was not that surprising, if he was honest. The weekly meetings he attended with Mr. Parkinson in London often centred around legislation that curtailed (or erased) the rights of non-wizard magical beings. 

In one afternoon, he watched the entirety of a centaur herd forcibly moved to a speck of marshland east of Warwick and away from hundreds of acres of ancestral homeland. The elder Burke brothers had been behind that particular move, though he hadn’t learned that until much later when Shunpike had taken delivery from a very brave owl of the very occasional Daily Prophet. 

Those were the difficult bits. The parts where Sirius felt he constantly kept his tongue. Where he was a disempowered voice amongst many, much louder voices that argued vociferously and vehemently in favour of a particular agenda. It was in these moments that Sirius sat back in the leather chair around the boardroom table, his fingers in his lap. He imagined the tops of the rolling hills and the sunshine and the wind, strong from the north, and the sound, oh that particular sound of long, leathery wings unfurling in the brightness of the afternoon. Like the wind, it could drown out almost anything. 

How he would daydream about the grass and the way it swept across his palm as he ran from the cabin to the river in the mornings, jumping with bare feet first in the deeper, colder waters that swirled and circled around rocks covered in moss. Rocks and boulders of slate and granite, flecked with mica, that were just as impassive and as ignorant as he needed to be, simple and warm in the strong rays of seemingly endless afternoons. 

And he’d think about the coldness of the river water as the sun was rising and the way it rushed across him, feet first, swallowing him whole. Freezing him. Shocking him. And the way he’d come up, hair slick and wild and suddenly he’d remember how to breathe. 

Weekly meetings. Weekly fantasies. Memories. Recollections of the howling wind and the sandy, rocky soil and the grass, so long and perfect and endless. 

And the dragons. The dragons that made him feel like everything was worth it because watching them fly felt exactly like amnesia. Like forgetting every painful slice of the rest of the world. It felt immortal and inhuman. As if the tiny Cork Slitnose (named Clive) that lived in the deep pockets of Turner’s old coat would crawl up his leather trousers and onto his shoulder could slither along the top of his spine and whisk away any thoughts of injustices in far away ministry buildings, on parchment that was oh, so flammable. 

Or the Welsh Greens, in their frequent squabbles over territory, could trample and flatten the grass and make everyone forget that somewhere in some office, maps and rights were disputed. Redrawn. Reassessed. Repurposed. 

All if it seemed to fall away when the nesting Hebridean Black would paint the sky and drift on headwinds from the north, bright and shining and perfect, looping her territory, her calls deep and rumbling and threatening to the very earth of which they spoke. As if any ministry could ever touch her or her children. 

And so, for two months Sirius had sat in weekly meetings and remembered the amnesia of it and forgot the rest. 

It helped that, in the evenings, when they all made their own, comparatively unimpressive fire, and cooked eggs and sausages over the embers, they would forget with firewhiskey. For, as it turned out, Turner, the eldest of the workers on the reserve, had a penchant for telling long and drawn out stories of the old days when dragons were far more numerous and their legal protections far fewer, and he would help hunt them for their skins and livers and blood and bones and teeth and claws and Turner had nearly lost his arm a thousand times if his stories were to be believed. 

Shunpike was the youngest of the three full time workers, nearly just a boy himself, home schooled in the Welsh countryside by a fiercely superstitious witch and her Romanian husband. The house had been full of dragon lore from a young age, and Shunpike, who’s first name Sirius thought might have been Iorath, but he couldn’t be sure, well, in any case, Shunpike had left for the reserve not long after he’d turned eighteen. 

And then there was Dowd, the thick-set one, who had been silent for the whole first month of Sirius’s living in the little one room cabin with them, where Sirius bunked just below him. He had been silent until one day, one day when he spit out a leaf just before dinner and they all clapped and cheered and drank a round.

You see, Dowd had been holding a mandrake leaf in his cheek for twenty eight days. A full lunar cycle. He had held the bitter, rough leaf and did not speak and would only eat once a day, at dinner, where he would very carefully spoon tiny mouthfuls to the side of his mouth across from the precious leaf. And no one had bothered to explain why, they all just seemed to take it for normal that Dowd was silent. 

Well, one night in July, he spit it out into his hands and whooped and cried and laughed and they all hooted and hollered their happiness in return, glasses raised to the sky and the gathering dark. And Dowd had collapsed down onto the half charred log next to the fire where he always sat and said, in the deepest and most gravely of voices, “Well about fokken time.” And his eyes were bright slits above such a wide smile that suited his round cheeks. 

That same night, they’d dragged out the ancient cauldron that had sat hanging from the rafters, looking like nothing more than a decoration. They’d filled it with water from the river and freshly stripped sprigs of fruiting pear trees and dried fenugreek and thyme and the leaf Dowd had spat into his hands. They’d brewed beneath the wide open sky with stars and moon and the wind that carried clouds high above. Clive had lit the fire, wriggling around the rocks that did their best to contain the coals and ash. 

Turner had directed most of the brewing, though one of the four of them were tasked with minding the cauldron through most of the day and, sometimes, if he was unlucky, Sirius was made to keep watch and stir it through the night. More often than not, it was Dowd who’d sit beside the great cauldron on the bank by the river, tending the fire beneath it, and he always seemed so broad and stoic, but cheerful, all the same.

One night, sitting together with Clive snoring gently on a rock between them, Sirius had asked Dowd what the potion was for. 

“For the best and most daring of wizarding adventures, laddie.” Dowd had said, a stem of the long grass between his teeth and his eyes lit up with the fire. 

“You’ll see. Just be patient.” And then he’d told Sirius a story about growing up in a mining town in the East, about learning alchemy and leaving tiny leprechaun gold nuggets in the deepest of the shafts for the mineworkers to find, earning themselves a nice bonus from the mining company, though, somehow, it’d vanish next day. 

Turner’d made the potion before, it seemed, maybe a few times, maybe dozens. He kept muttering to himself and watching the eastern sky through the evenings after they’d all returned from their work around the reserve, clearing burnt brush or breaking up squabbles. 

He’d stand, shredding little sprigs of rosemary between rough and calloused fingers, which he would scatter on the surface of the simmering brew, watching the way it would lighten the colour and seem to soften the boil. Sometimes, he would sniff hard at the steam that rose lazily from the sky blue potion and ask for knotgrass or skunk cabbage. 

One hot evening in early August, the potion gurgling satisfyingly, Turner poured in powdered dragon bones they’d dug up from the old Hebridean stomping grounds, all porous and chipped from years underground. They’d smashed a great femur and part of a jaw in the old, makeshift stone mortar, taking turns with an equally as giant pestle. The thickening liquid turned bright red, and Turner had smiled hard, rubbing his hands together. He’d dripped wax across the surface and sealed it, throwing water over the coals that had burned without rest for two weeks, Clive hiccoughing little sparks from the depths of his pocket. 

“Now we’re brewin’, lads!” He’d cried, and Dowd had crowed like a rooster, laughing with his head tilted back and his face full of the oranges and reds of a setting sun. 

They’d walked far the next night, the half moon, one behind the other, silent and without wand light, each of them listening hard for the sounds of dragons. They’d crossed territory of the Welsh Green and then skirted the Birch stands that housed the last breeding colony of Yellow-bellied Twinspots, who spit acid in place of fire. 

Sirius had cramps in both the arches of his feet and many blisters on his heels after climbing a hundred hills and forging many little rivers before they came to find the little marshland in the southwest. The reed beds were full of slumbering minuscule Pickerie dragons that hung, like over-large bats, on the cattails, bent low over the stagnant water, their scales a dark, muddy green, their tails orange and luminescent in the half moonlight. 

In the marsh, they had dug into the soft, silty soil to find the roots of the hemlock plant, and, when they had gathered three baskets worth, they had camped there that night, the Pickerie dragons keeping watch with sleepy, half-opened, orange eyes. Their work had been silent, like much of the time they spent together, and Sirius bunked beneath Dowd, who had sung them all to sleep with an old Scottish war hymn his grandfather had taught him, one from back when wizards fought giants and, so often, they lost. 

In the morning, they packed up and set off back across the reserve, taking the southern loop beyond the grasslands, all the way to the cliffs that housed great colonies of Georgian Firestarters and Armenian Purple-Crested Nighthooks, both of which migrated each summer to the reserve, feeding on fish in the sea and breeding, raising their young on the barren rock ledges lining the sheer cliffs. 

Sirius lay on his stomach, looking down at the chaos below, swooping and diving and tumbling into the waves, dragons snapped and screeched at each other, little jets of flame between flapping wings and snapping jaws. In the chaos, he caught sight of a Golden Housedragon, a rare little species that seemed to have forgotten himself, finding a new home amidst the cliffside chaos. He seemed to shimmer in the bright noon sun, the inside of his gaping mouth a bright, deep red, lined with razor sharp teeth. 

They stood a while, taking stock of that year’s colonies. Trying to count the numbers of successful breeding pairs, the number of young they’d hatched and if there were any eggs that had not successfully developed. Turner stood with his little quill and notepad, marking down numbers as Dowd and Shunpike scaled down the cliffs as far as they could, wands between their teeth. 

Shunpike managed to get quite a nasty bite from a fledgling Nighthook, and Turner spent a good hour lecturing him on proper safety around the young ones, hustling them off back to the east. Eventually, when Shunpike was slowing them down and looking a bit sickly, Turner just slapped some half chewed dandelion root on his finger and the nasty blue black swelling seemed to subside at once, Turner grumbling about the arrogance of youth. 

By that evening, they had found their way back to their edge of the western grasslands, just a few kilometres from their outpost, and Sirius caught sight of the giant form of the Hebridean Black on her hilltop, wings stretching wide and her guttural rasping calls seeming to draw them ever closer to home. 

“There ya are, ye great hellbeast.” Turner crooned fondly, lighting his pipe while the three of them rested a moment, panting from the steep climb at their backs. They watched the great black dragon as she seemed to look up into the thick clouds that had since gathered across the sky as the sun sank low and the wind grew just a shade cooler, her tail whipping back and forth, gouging the earth. 

From above her, another call, deep and threatening, seemed to reverberate around the hills, and another set of wide black wings swept low and graceful down in a wide circle around the nesting mother. 

Dowd whistled, low and thoughtful while Shunpike sucked a great breath in, all four of them silent and unmoving, watching the great male Hebridean Black land and greet his brood. Sirius had never seen anything like it, huge and armoured, not smooth and silken like the iridescent scales of the female. 

Sirius felt so insignificant watching them. Like their worlds could not possibly be the same. How could anything he did ever have any meaning when beasts like this still ruled the skies and the land and the seas in equal, terrifying measure. 

How could wizards ever be superior to anything. 

______________

Back at the riverbank by the cabin, Sirius soaked his feet in murtlap essence and Welsh poppy, watching the blisters from his dragon hide boots heal while Dowd re-lit the fire beneath the cauldron, melting the wax and stirring lazily, whistling the while. 

They ate fermented cabbage and tinned beef stew for supper, and Turner stirred in the hemlock roots, one by one, Dowd at his side. They discussed the roots in hushed tones, Turner explaining the magic of the bitter-smelling marsh plant would have to suffice, since they wouldn’t be able to harvest the leopard gall that the original recipe called for. 

Sirius listened and tried to follow how Turner described each ingredient. How the rosemary would bind the whitlow grass. How it made a good substitute for death’s head moth, both sinister and full of potential for blood charms, and how the hemlock had the same alchemical properties as the leopard gall, equally potent and promising. And the bones, well, that would be the power they needed. 

Occasionally, Turner would lean forward and sniff the steam coming off the burgundy brew, and he’d turn to Dowd, asking him what he sensed. 

“Smells like iron.” Dowd said, nose wrinkling and brow furrowed, flickering in the firelight. 

“That’s how you know it’s nearly ready. Smells like blood, it does.” Turner sniffed again and smiled, Clive slithering down his arm, nose turned equally as curiously toward the deep red in the belly of the cauldron. 

Sirius stood from his place next to Shunpike, whose nose was between the pages of  _ 1001 Magical Herbs and Fungi _ , finding himself drawn to the wisps of steam and the gentle murmurings of the two older men, stirring slowly and methodically with the birchwood spoon, one he had seen Dowd whittle himself in the early days of his arrival. Back when Dowd was the silent, brooding type, all thick set and serious. 

The air around the cauldron seemed to hum and shimmer with magic as he approached, and the smell of iron, or, rather, the smell of blood, seemed to thicken the air, dizzying and oddly sweet. Sirius felt it running over his skin, prickling, like static. It made his hair stand on end. 

He’d never felt magic like this before. Never felt it so powerful. Raw. Thick and atmospheric. It crawled around the cauldron in tendrils, like the steam that spilled around the lip and fell, heavy and thick, to the rocky soil below. It felt feral and ancient, autonomous and hungry. 

Turner and Dowd had quieted and were watching him, and it was several slow minutes before Sirius looked up, mouth hanging ajar. Their smiles and their teeth were so visible in the dark, the dark clouds of the evening bright and reflective, ambient light from a distant moon diffuse and effervescent. Sirius could hear the Hebridean Black’s low throaty calls in the distance. 

“What is it?” His voice felt thick and the magic seemed to fill his mouth and run across his tongue. He tasted the blood. It was intoxicating. Powerful. Sirius found himself swallowing, as if to drink it in. His mouth was wet and his ears filled with a bit of ringing. 

“Not yet, laddie, not yet.” Turner said softly, watching Sirius and the way he seemed to stagger in the presence of such primordial magic. 

Sirius had been to ceremony after ceremony. Had chanted and cast in circles lit with candles that burned deep and low, had watched the sacrifices made to the old gods. He’d felt magic before, often light and flighty or deep and humming, but nothing, nothing had felt like this. 

No, this magic was older than ritual. Older than rites. This was a magic of the grass and the beasts and the very stones beneath their feet. It seemed to sing of things Sirius didn’t know how to name, but wanted in his throat. Wanted in his blood and bones.

He dreamt of a forest cave that night. Of the deep and dark places that burrowed into the earth. 

______________

Sirius only learned what the potion was for in the second week of August. 

They had all felt the tension building. The way the air was dry and the wind seemed to disappear. The rolling hills became still and the quiet seemed to gather, so disarming. It had gotten hot and humid and Sirius found himself stripping off his grimy t-shirt and throwing himself in the stream in the afternoons, just for the hint of relief it would bring.

On the third morning of the insufferable stillness, Turner had fed Clive bits of egg from breakfast and told them there’d be no work that day. They only needed to watch the sky and prepare for the night. 

Sirius had welcomed the break. He’d spent the last sweltering week helping Turner trap some of the Short Snouts that lived in the north for the team from St. Mungo’s to take samples from. They fired coordinated stunning spells, conjunctivitis curses,  _ incarcerous _ and did tricky bits of transfiguration that Turner had to teach him on the fly, an infuriated dragon blasting jets of fire over their heads. They had crouched behind large boulders, which grew hot and inhospitable as time wore on, sweat dripping from their brows, magic hot and uncomfortable at their fingertips. 

Sirius had come back with a burn across his shoulder and some of his long hair singed away, tired and sore from the work, and he was relieved to hear they’d be spending the day in the relative safety and shelter of the outpost, close to the stream and sheltered afternoon shadow of their little valley. 

It was late afternoon when the wind came back. All of a sudden, as if somewhere, someone had turned on a tap, full whistling, billowing wind, ruthless as it had been all summer, but cold, now. Unseasonably cold. Sirius had hastily grabbed layers. Even an old sweater he’d nicked from Remus, white and maroon and with a stupid Christmas tree pattern that Sirius secretly loved. 

Sirius heard the first crack of thunder as he pulled it over his head, stumbling over his boots, his hands desperately seeking his wand to help hold back his hair, which had valiantly escaped in the gust of cold and the entrapments of his friend’s hideous sweater. 

“Get out here, ya’ great fools.” Came Turner’s voice above the wind, laughing and joyous, Clive chattering and clicking his teeth, Dowd jumping down from his bunk with a thud and a gleeful, manic look on his face, Shunpike close behind him, folding  _ Magical Water Plants of England and Wales _ shut with a thud, tossing it back on his pillow. 

The three of them gathered behind Turner, Sirius still halfway pulling on his second boot. Big fat droplets of rain began to fall from the darkening sky, clouds rolling in heavy and persistent as Turner let Clive down his arm to restart the fire beneath the cauldron, which had been left to rest en plein air in the days since they’d added the hemlock. There was a flash of light on the horizon and another rumbling of thunder. 

“Out yer clothes, Dowd. It’s not the time for modesty. She’s nearly ready now.” 

Dowd had stripped down at once, flinging his discarded shirt and trousers at Sirius, who’d caught them, hugging them to his chest, not wanting to admit that being out in a storm wasn’t his favorite thing. In fact, it was one of the few things he felt quite, well, scared, about, if he was honest and telling the truth. But, there was no time for the truth now, here he was, and he didn’t want to be the one who broke first and made a dash back inside. 

There was a second flash of lightning at the crest of the hill just to the east. Turner was stirring the long birchwood spoon deep in the cauldron, pulling the deep burgundy mixture around and around, watching the sky, ignoring the steam that was forming and cascading down around his boots. He had a smile that pulled at his wiry grey beard and gave glimpses of empty spaces where his back teeth may have been.

Despite the rain, Sirius could feel the magic building again, thick and heavy like before. It seemed to mix with the electricity in the air, that taught and tense feeling, like the spark just before the world catches fire. Ignites. Explodes. Like the power of drawing a deep breath, so deep it hurts, so deep your body reels with it, fights with it. The tension of it. 

Sirius felt the hair lift on the back of his neck, the air and the fire crackling. And that, that’s when lightning struck far too close, just in the little field next to the cabin, and Turner tipped the cauldron, spilling the deep red brew out across the rocky earth and over Dowd’s bare feet.

Dowd may have cried out as the boiling potion swam across his ankles and he dropped into the steaming mass, his knees hard on the gravel and the sand and the mud, but the cold wind, whipping up the valley and the crack of the thunder and the absolute chaos of the moment seemed to eat everything else alive. It seemed to eat Dowd, who’s eyes were bright and open and so was his mouth, as Turner ladled the last of the potion onto the birch spoon and between his lips, yelling something indistinct into the storm, rain falling hard and fast around them. Shunpike grabbed Sirius’s shoulder to keep him from running forward. 

In the place where Turner had tipped the potion and let it wash across Dowd’s crumpled form, steam billowed, then dissipated, slow and heavy, somehow satiated, less prickly and more soporific, and Sirius felt himself waver, his sweater now soaked in the late summer rain and his heart trying hard not to beat out of his chest, making silent pleas to never be that close to lightning ever again. 

As the steam fell away and the rain became more of a steady patter, the thunder moving further out across the grasslands, Sirius stared down at the red stained earth and dropped all of Dowd’s clothes at his feet. 

In the place where Dowd had stood, bright red and white and with a thick, billowing tail, was a fox, it’s expression just as cunning and clever and devious as Dowd’s had been those weeks ago when he’d spat out the mandrake leaf. 

______________

In the last week of August, Sirius left Eryri-Meirionnydd Indigenous Costal Dragon Research Centre and Ecological Frontier, his knapsack on his back and Turner’s hand ruffling his hair affectionately while Clive clawed about his shoulders for the last time. Dowd had come back by then, spending several days living as a fox in the thicket that skirted the river, one morning just appearing in the kitchen, starkers, cooking eggs like nothing had happened. The same mischievous look on his face.

“Stay wild, kid.” Dowd had said, with a wink and a grin. 

Shunpike had given Sirius an untitled and handwritten notebook of probably illegal spells and made him solemnly swear he’d never stop getting up to no good, and Turner, well, Turner said he hoped he’d learned something, and to never forget whatever that was. 

Later, dropping his knapsack back into his open trunk at the foot of the stairs beneath the elf heads, Sirius had sighed into the silence and the stillness, already longing so deeply and profoundly for the rolling grasses and the rocky hills, the way he could watch the weather unfurl across the sky from east to west. He missed the dragons and the simple way they had lived. No politics. No customs. 

Starkers and eggs. The wind. Afternoons in the river. Wild and free. 

Sirius rubbed the yew of his wand absentmindedly and felt the magic beneath it humming, soft and delicate, like he used to be. 

______________

On the platform the next day, Sirius and Regulus walked together, velvet bows tying back dark hair, clean pressed robes accompanying haughty, peaked stares and rouged cheeks. His mother fussed with Regulus’s collar, and told him, in rapid French, to be such a good boy and make her proud. She didn’t say goodbye to Sirius, who tugged at the tightness of his own collar as soon as she looked away, his father checking his pocket watch and giving a bored sigh, moving away to greet the Crouches, who were saying tearful and loving goodbyes to their only son. 

“Come on, Regulus, let’s get on the train.” Sirius said, half under his breath, eager to escape the itchy, starchy ratcatcher of the high necked tunic beneath heavy velvet robes, edged in gold poppies and silver stars, and the equally suffocating world of being young Master Black.

“Be perfect, little darling.” He heard his mother’s voice drift above the din behind them. Saccharine. 

He helped heave the two trunks up into the train carriage, and, once inside the corridor, untucked his tunic, shouldering off his robes, tugging at the garishly voluminous cravat, making sure he was well hidden from the windows that abutted the platform. 

“What’re you doing, Sirius?” Came Regulus’s soft voice behind him. Gods, he was tiny. Just, little and so pale. He looked too young for the chaos of the train, a black cat streaking off down the hall behind him between two Hufflepuffs, who were making frantic grabs to catch it, shouting “no, Frank!” with increasing desperation. 

“Shedding layers, little bro.” He said, undoing about a thousand little buttons to reveal his Snowdonia National Park t-shirt that he and Shunpike had nabbed from the muggle gift shop at the reserve, sleeves cut off and little burn marks round the side, trademark Clive. 

Sirius balled up the ridiculous wad of clothing he’d just pulled off and stuffed it back into his trunk, knocking aside his copies of  _ Disarmed _ by Hortencia Deerborne and  _ Beasts of the Northern Forests _ , a thick text by Ru Garr. His black patent shoes and high waisted trousers now looked entirely out of place beneath the ratty, makeshift wife-beater, and he stood up, grinning broadly, dragging his trunk behind him as he checked between different train cars, seeing far too many familiar faces. 

“Sirius, what are you wearing? What is that?” Regulus shuffled along behind him, eyes wide and curious as Sirius ripped the velvet bow from his hair and twisted it up in a knot with his wand, now such a well practiced move he was able to do it while shouldering open one of the doors to a train car, shouts of welcome and cheers of recognition spilling from within. 

“Down boys!” Sirius yelled with glee, ducking his head back out into the corridor, “You comin’ or not, little brother? Take off your cravat you look like a period drama vampire, doesn’t he, Remus?” 

“Regulus!” The call came from the sickly boy that had stood between the Crouches, a little hunched and decidedly strange, his hair laying flat and limp, nearly over his eyes. 

“Hi Barty,” Regulus smiled, waving the hand that wasn’t still struggling with his heavy trunk. 

“Come sit with us, there’s a whole bunch of us first years in here.” Then, quieter as he stepped forward, “a boy named Noah brought a cursed toad.” His eyes were bright and nervous in a way that made Sirius instantly dislike him, but he didn’t feel right squashing the first chance of friendship Regulus had.

“Go on, Regulus, I’ll be in here if you need me. Don’t get into too much trouble though, go on. Find some Hufflepuffs, they’re the nice ones. You’ll like them.” 

He watched him totter off, the two of them now dragging the trunk together, sliding open a train compartment to the sound of a loud croak and nervous giggling. Sirius watched him go before slipping into his own compartment and plopping down beside Remus, putting his feet up on the bench across on James’s lap. 

“Gents, you won’t believe the summer I’ve had. Sit down Pete, I’ve got stories to tell.” 

______________

Sirius had missed the sorting hat’s song because he’d gotten into a whispered fight with Lily over the relative appropriateness of his Snowdonia t-shirt beneath his open Gryffindor robes, which had McGonagall doing a double take when he’d passed her in the hall. 

True, he hadn’t really washed it save for a few dunks in the river all summer, and yes, some of those stains could be blood, but he found the burn marks charming, and he was convinced it added to his mystique. Plus, he wasn’t prepared to admit how much he missed it, already, even though, here he was, back home between his best friends, Remus ducked low to avoid the hissing and pinching going on between himself and Lily, James looking completely torn on his other side. Peter kept trying to flirt, though pitifully, with Marlene McKinnon, who was trying with all her might to get everyone to shush to hear the hat’s song. 

“Aarons, Stanley.” 

At the sound of Professor McGonagall’s stern voice, they all turned to watch a young boy with his robes buttoned up incorrectly sit himself on the stool, obviously nervous, his hands twisting in his lap. 

“This one will be a Hufflepuff, no doubt. Look at him. Like a little lost puppy.” Sirius said, not bothering to lower his voice, turning around completely on the bench to watch the proceedings. When the hat eventually yelled HUFFLEPUFF, he clapped loudly with the rest. 

“Bravo! Oh, bless him he’s tripped. There you go, lad.” He said, fawning a bit. “You know, I hope Regulus is Hufflepuff. He’s so soft. Just such a kind little kid. They’ll be great for him. Oh, and it’ll drive my mother completely mental, it will.” 

He talked right over the hat sending Almira Alma to Ravenclaw. 

“You should see him play the piano. He even bites his tongue. Mother used to threaten to break his pinky for it but he is just like that you know, just a bit weird. Quirky. Hufflepuff would be great for him. Oh, he’ll make so many little friends!” 

Sirius waved to Regulus and gave him a thumbs up as Adelaide Arnaud went off to the Slytherin table amid cheering and whooping. Regulus waved back, cheeks a bit pink and nervous looking, nudging and smiling to his new friend, Barty with the limp hair, whom Sirius still didn’t like, but it didn’t matter now because Regulus could go to Hufflepuff and they’d be so sweet to him. Oh, right by the kitchens! He’d love it! 

Archie Beckett joined the Gryffindor table to much cheering and applause and Sirius, between whistling and cheering, said to the table, “You know, I could even see him doing well in Ravenclaw, the little blighter. He’s sharp as a tack that one, just really clever, but I promise a heart of gold.” 

“Black, Regulus.” Came Minerva McGonagall’s severe voice above the cheering, and the whole hall seemed to shush, Sirius beaming as he watched his little brother walk over to the stool and put the hat on his head. He seemed to hold his breath as the hat deliberated, the old, frayed rim having fallen right down over little Regulus’s eyes, his feet perched haphazardly on the bar of the old stool. 

“Hufflepuff, I swear it, you watch-”

“SLYTHERIN.” Came the voice of the musty, old hat. 

Sirius stood up, his mouth hanging open, his heart pounding in his chest as his little brother pulled off the hat with a shy smile and jogged over toward the cheering sea of green and silver. 

He felt a tug on his robes. 

“Sit down, Sirius.” It was Remus talking to him. 

He fell back against the bench, watching prefect Corban Yaxley shake little Regulus’s hand, and Calpernia Burke raising her goblet to him. Snape, Avery and Mulciber all were clapping loudly. 

“Remus, they’ll eat him alive. He won’t, he won’t survive this. They’ll ruin him.” Sirius felt his hands clutch at his Snowdonia National Park t-shirt and suddenly, suddenly he was so disgusted with himself, off playing with dragons while his mother whispered little evils in Regulus’s ear. While she made him play the piano and told him stories about filthy muggles and their greedy little fingers. While she filled his head with Black pride. With Slytherin pride. With the rhetoric of the house of snakes and the vile that reeked of supremacy. 

What had he been doing? Wasting his time in the open fields and the rolling, restless quiet when he should have been fighting her. Should have been protecting him. Should have been telling him about the house of yellow and black and what it feels like to be someone’s friend. 

And now, now it was too late. Maybe that was their plan all along. The simple personhood he thought he’d won with his father all of a sudden seemed so calculating. So cutting. 

He watched Amycus Carrow catch his gaze from the Slytherin table and smirk at him, head boy badge gleaming on his chest. 

The feast eventually appeared, but, Gods, he felt sick. 


	10. Secrets, Safe and Sound

_ September 1, 1973 _

The boys left the feast, following the raucous crowd of Gryffindors back to the tower. 

“I don’t remember being this short.” Peter muttered to Sirius as a few little first years scrambled past to follow their prefect to the dorms. 

Sirius grunted a noncommittal response, hands pushed deep in his pockets, eyes on the floor. Beside Remus, James was trying his hardest to have a conversation with Lily. 

“Had a good summer, Evans?” He asked, standing up straight and adjusting his glasses. She nodded suspiciously as he continued. “Yeah? Watch any Quidditch?”

“I’m muggleborn, Potter, of course I didn’t watch any Quidditch.” She replied, cooly. 

James caught Remus’s raised eyebrow and swatted him with his hand from under his robes, his dark skin nearly blushing. Remus swatted him back and knocked him with his shoulder, maintaining an unaffected look.

“Oh, yeah. Right, of course.” He laughed awkwardly. With finger guns. Remus snorted.

“And you, Lupin? How was your summer?” Lily asked, ignoring James. 

“Oh, it was fine.” He lied. He didn’t think anyone needed to know about his dad and his drinking. Or about Greyback. Or the fact that he ended up spending most of his summer working at the local ice cream parlour, just to escape the endless empty days alone. “Very quiet.”

James was ruffling his thick black hair in that weird way that made him look as if he’d just gotten off his broom. Lily eyed him speculatively as Marlene elbowed her way between them, slipping her arm around Remus’s and beaming at him. 

He lost track of his friends as they filed into the fat lady’s corridor, Marlene arm in arm with him, chatting endlessly, only giving him the moments between breaths to respond. 

“Password is  _ Captivus _ .” A prefect was saying as Peter materialised back before him. He grabbed Remus’s sweater and pulled him away from Marlene. They ducked through the portrait hole leaving her looking a bit dejected. 

“Mates,” James whispered as soon as the three of them were huddled together by the fire, “did you see Sirius when Regulus was sorted? I think he’s gutted.”

Remus nodded, hands in his pockets. “Poor kid looked like a Hufflepuff, too. No wonder Sirius is worried.” 

Regulus had looked so small and mousy, innocent. And so very pale. Nothing like Remus had imagined, knowing Sirius. He had anticipated another firecracker of a human with charisma and swagger.

“We should do something for him.” James offered. 

“Like what?” Peter asked, his eyes scanning the common room, resting on Marlene as she swept her long strawberry blond curls over her shoulder, gesticulating animatedly to Dorcas.

“Dunno.” James shrugged, his eyes trained on Lily as she laughed with that stout second year, Oliver Carston. “We could sneak out tonight. We don’t have class til Monday.”

“I’m too tired to go out,” Peter whined. 

“Well, then, what do you suggest?” James demanded, turning his back on the rest of the room to glare at Peter. 

“We could just go be nice to him,” Remus suggested.

James scoffed. “You’re both useless. C’mon.” 

And he turned to jog up the steps, already full of students making their way to their respective dorms. 

When they entered their room, it was dimly lit and warm. Remus breathed in the familiar smell of clean linen and freshly washed wooden floors. The thin soles of his chucks were muffled on the red throw rugs scattered about as they made their way to their beds. Sirius’s hangings were pulled closed. 

James picked up his pillows from his bed and marched straight over to Sirius’s. 

“Oi!” He shouted, ripping back the hangings and lobbing a pillow straight at a very disgruntled looking Sirius. 

“What the hell, James?” He sounded angry, sitting bolt upright, wearing nothing but his pants and one of Remus’s muggle t-shirts. 

“I thought you could fight dragons? Can’t take a pillow?” James taunted with waggling eyebrows, and Remus sighed heavily, moving towards his trunk.

“Piss off, will you?” Sirius muttered, reaching to pull his hangings shut again. 

“Oh, so you  _ can’t _ fight dragons?” James asked, pushing his glasses up his nose, a second pillow gripped at his side. 

“You calling me a liar?” Sirius demanded, jumping to stand on his bed, looming over James, sounding suddenly revved for a challenge. 

“Maybe I am,” James said, now dancing weirdly like a snake about to strike, taunting Sirius, holding the other pillow aloft. Remus watched awkwardly, unsure what to do.

“Stand down, Potter,” Sirius warned, his irritation and bad temper shifting subtly into a mischievous smirk. 

“You’ll never take me alive!” James bellowed. 

“I’ll see you in hell!” Sirius roared, looking deranged as he lunged off his bed and tackled James into the woven rug.

“Tell them who sent you!” James grunted back, Sirius sitting on his chest. They began beating each other senseless with pillows, feathers flying everywhere. 

Remus dodged projectile objects as he attempted to unpack his trunk amidst the general chaos. Since none of them knew what to say to make Regulus going to Slytherin any better, it seemed distracting Sirius from that reality was the next best thing. Peter was pointing his wand at random objects, shouting “ _ paulo volatu _ ”, charming them to fly at Sirius and James while they ran circles around the room and tackled one another. 

A pillow smacked into the side of Remus’s head as he was bent double fishing his pyjamas out from under a stack of books. 

“ _ Ouf _ !” He yelled when he toppled over and nearly took his bed hangings with him in his desperate flailing endeavour to stay upright. 

“Sirius!” He shouted, turning to face the furious pillow war. “For the love of—” he tried to reprimand before another pillow whacked him directly in the face, knocking him backwards onto his bed. 

“Fight back, you yellow bellied bowtruckle!” Sirius challenged from atop James’s bed, brandishing a candlestick he’d taken from a side table. James dove out from behind him and took him out at the knees, limbs flailing wildly as they hit the mattress with bouncing squeaking springs. Peter crawled over to the relative safety of the other side of Remus’s bed, sporting a bruised eye he’d somehow managed to get, and watched shrewdly as they continued to wrestle. 

Remus turned and grabbed the two pillows off his bed, pointed his wand at them and whispered “ _ defendere _ ”. The pillows flew towards James and Sirius, still on the ground, each trying to gain the upper hand, James attempting to put Sirius in a headlock, faces red and cackling, and began to thump them about the head. 

“Oh!” James yelled in surprise. 

“You crafty  _ bastard _ !” Sirius yelled, trying to fight it off with the candlestick, his wand forgotten on his bed. 

Peter snickered, finally coming out from hiding and sat down beside the pile of Remus’s sweaters. 

“Fight us like a man!” James demanded, throwing ineffective punches at the pillows. 

“You brought this on yourselves,” Remus said simply, a smile pulling the scar on his left cheek as he finally extricated his pyjamas from the depths of the trunk. “I was just an innocent bystander, caught up in a random act of violence.”

“You’ll pay for this, Lupin!” Sirius yelled, hair wild, leaping onto the floating pillow and trying to use his body weight to drag it back down to the floor. “The  _ audacity _ ! I  _ never _ !”

Remus let them wrestle the pillows as he finished unpacking. He climbed beneath his blankets and admired the hilarious sight of his mates valiantly duelling off the floating cushions, happy to see Sirius like this, alive and full of fire. Like the dragons he had talked so lovingly about. 

“Oi!” He yelled, pointing his wand at his friends, “I need my pillows back.”

He regretted every decision he had ever made as soon as he cancelled the spell. He saw James and Sirius grin evilly at one another, panting heavily with frazzled hair. 

“Sirius—  _ no _ .” Remus warned as he would to a poorly trained dog, pointing his wand directly at his face in rebuke.

“Sirius,  _ yes _ !” He shouted, charging Remus with startling ferocity, pillow in hand. James was on his heels, yelling a war cry. Remus dove under his covers, laughing and yelling idle threats as Sirius, James, and for some reason, Peter, were all jumping on his bed like the feral humans they were, all smacking him with pillows. 

“Admit defeat!” James cried. 

“Surrender!” Sirius demanded. 

“Gods! You’re all a menace!” Remus’s muffled voice shouted from under the thick duvet, his body bouncing wildly on the bed. “Peter, whose side are you on, anyways!”

“The side of the victor!” Peter exclaimed jovially, maniacally. 

From the sounds of it, Sirius had stopped hitting Remus to direct a blow at Peter, knocking him off the bed with a pitiful and shocked groan. 

“We’re men of honour!” Sirius boomed, diving off of Remus’s bed and beginning to chase a shrieking and scuttling Peter.

James dropped Remus’s pillow and plopped down, panting. He began to smooth out the blankets of Remus’s bed like a mother hen, as he emerged from his hiding place. Through his mussed hair he could see Sirius throwing rolled up socks at Peter who was shooting them away with his wand. 

Peter ended up with two black eyes from running into furniture, and Remus had laughed himself nearly sick when James tripped and belly flopped onto the floor. He laughed so hard, in fact, that he tore open a scar by his mouth, blood dripping down onto his duvet. In an absent wave of his wand, Sirius had healed them both as they all piled onto Remus’s bed, panting and laughing, tired and pleased with themselves. 

Sirius seemed to be in a bit better of a mood, though still subdued and worn looking, as he pulled his silk pyjamas over his t-shirt.

James slung an arm over Sirius and pulled him to his side and Peter shoved his cold feet under Remus’s thigh. He ran his thumb over the tingling healing spell on his jaw and James reached over to swat his hand away as he spoke. “Tell us more about the golden house dragons, Sirius, I have  _ never _ even heard of those.” 

It was a long, long time before they all drifted back to their own beds to sleep and Remus dreamt of running through the forest, paws heavy on the earth.

______________

_ September 3, 1973 _

The Great Hall was filled with the general chaos that the first day of class often heralded. Heads of houses were marching up and down their tables talking to third and fifth years about class schedules, making arrangements and shouting out intermittent reprimands at some younger years. 

Sirius was back to being sullen and quiet, having disappeared for most of Sunday. He had dressed silently that morning and left for breakfast without waiting for any of them. Remus had walked shoulder to shoulder with James as they listened to Peter trying desperately to have a conversation with Marlene. 

Remus was biting down on the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh, as James jostled his shoulder, listening to Peter say awful and painful things, like,  _ You know, I have quite the gobstone collection if you ever wanted to see it _ — or Remus’s personal favourite,  _ I would have tried out for Quidditch if it wasn’t for my leg, yeah, I— uh, injured it fighting off a hippogriff. _

They eventually found their way to Sirius, sitting quietly, lost in thought at the Gryffindor table, facing a little group of Slytherin first years. Remus watched as the small boy, so similar to Sirius and yet so different, giggle shyly with his classmates. 

James dropped beside Sirius and threw an arm around him, resting his head on his shoulder, but not saying anything. Sirius dropped his head onto James’s and sighed. Remus sat across from them, listening to Marlene try and escape Peter’s undivided attention, feeling much pity for his most awkward friend. 

They had a quiet breakfast, the ruckus of the start of term swirling around them. Remus had picked up a discarded Daily Prophet from the empty seat beside him as he ate his sliced apple with peanut butter. 

On the front page read; 

_ Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery _

_ Written in 1875, the often neglected and little reinforced decree has been the focus of renewed debates as the Wizengamot discusses its relevance in today’s society. Some members feel that it is imperative to the preservation and protection of wizarding society that underage students not be allowed to perform magic outside of school.  _

_ The upcoming vote is to decide whether to dissolve the decree or to begin proper reinforcements.  _

_ Some argue that this is a ploy to make magic inaccessible to Muggleborns, punishing them for using magic in muggle homes. Whereas there is little ability to track and regulate magic being performed by underage students in magical homes or those being homeschooled, as the trace is occluded in places of dense magic— _

Remus read the rest of the article, then read a few more. He thought that he ought to take out a subscription for himself as he looked through a half finished crossword puzzle. For the comings and goings of wizarding society were much more interesting than anything he had read in his mum’s celebrity gossip magazines or the Sunday papers he found in his hometown library. It’s not as if his dad had ever kept him informed, either. He flipped the page towards the end of the paper to see a looping image from the back of a gathered crowd, nodding and cheering, fists raised in the air as a man in dark robes and a starkly white face spoke with intensity. 

_ Wizarding Pride or Prejudice? _

_ As anti-muggle sentiments and incidents rise, so too, do the formation and strength of right-wing conservative groups with aims towards preserving wizarding heritage and blood purity. These groups have gained popularity over the last decade, but some are still skeptical about the radicalisation of traditional beliefs— _

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Remus startled at McGonagall’s clipped tone, suddenly so close. She stood beside James and handed him a sheet of blank parchment. Remus folded  _ the Prophet _ and set it aside. 

“Muggle Studies,” she said with surprised approval, reading from her clipboard, “very good, Mister Potter.”

He beamed at her and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I look forward to learning the function of a  _ my-crow-wave _ .” 

Remus snorted as McGonagall let out an audible sigh.

She adjusted her glasses, reading a bit further before nodding and tapping her wand to the blank parchment in James’s hands. “There you are. All set.”

James read over the newly formed schedule as she turned to give parchment to Remus and Peter. Their schedules were equally as straightforward. 

She then handed the parchment to Sirius. 

Remus listened halfheartedly as he read through his new schedule, mentally cataloguing all of the books and supplies he would need to organise before the first bell, his thumb rubbing softly back and forth beneath his chin. 

“Mister Black, you had far too much free time scheduled.” She said and he looked up to see Sirius shrug. He seemed unable to muster any roguish and boisterous nonsense, even for Minnie, as he buttered a croissant. 

“I’ve added you to Arithmancy.” She continued briskly, clearly expecting an argument against the heavy academic burden.

He shrugged again, nodding in agreement, sipping from a mug of coffee.

She narrowed her eyes at him as she extended her wand and tapped the parchment beside his plate. 

“I expect you’ll excel with a challenge.” She continued, visibly bothered by the lack of confrontation. 

“Suppose so, Professor.” He agreed without looking at her or the schedule. “That’s just what I need. More adversity.” McGonagall stood frozen for a moment, staring down at Sirius.

“See me after final period.” She said as if he had earned himself detention. This, it seemed, was worth a reaction, and he quickly turned his head to look at her. 

“ _ What _ ? What for?”

She didn’t respond or clarify and he watched her go with incredulous eyes. 

“Sorry, mate.” Peter offered. 

Sirius sighed heavily, shaking his head and pulling his mug of coffee towards him, hands wrapped around the mug. Beneath his fingers, Remus could just make out “Snowdonia” spelled out in trees, an eagle, a goat and an otter. It looked muggle. Another trophy from his gift shop raid, he supposed. 

Remus smiled to himself, buttering his toast. 

______________

McGonagall had started their first lesson by welcoming them to their third year, and warning them that they had only two more left until their OWL exams. No pressure, or anything. 

Then, she turned herself into a cat to wild and shocked applause, telling them that they would learn about the animagus conjurus spell that term. But, before they got there, they had to learn all of the animalia transmogrification spells and theories in preparation. Remus surreptitiously thumbed through the animalia transmogrify section of  _ Intermediate Transfiguration _ and barely repressed a grimace. It was near a third of their reading material. 

And, if that wasn’t enough for them to wrap their heads around, she gave them all an eighteen inch essay, to be finished by the following Monday. They had all groaned and Peter had thumped his head on his desk. 

Much to Remus’s horror, they discovered, in Defense Against the Dark Arts, that they’d be taking an intensive look at werewolves as well as a wide array of dark creatures. Boggarts, hinkypunks, and all manner of nocturnal beasts made up the entirety of their first term. Peter had nudged his foot under the desk and Sirius had written him notes all through class, saying things like, 

_ Do you think Doge could spot a werewolf in knitwear if it was sitting right in front of him?  _

Leaving Remus slightly less queasy. 

That night, on the wall beside his bed, he put up a moon calendar and began filling in his class schedule, determined to stay on top of his alarming increase in homework.

_ _______________ _

Tuesday, in Charms, Remus suffered a horrible ringing in his ears. They were learning counter spells and body binds that, when misfired, sounded like a firecracker, or a bomb. No one else seemed to mind the pops and bangs, cracks and sparks of the Charms classroom, but Remus struggled with it. It was too loud, too bright, and all too unpredictable. Sirius had customarily stood atop his chair, shouting his spell casting above the din, adding to the chaotic flare of the lesson. Remus had been floundering and trying to remember what on earth he was meant to be doing amidst all the shouts and shrill noises, but instead, he ended up accidentally ripping open a scab on his wrist. He hadn’t even realised he was doing it until there was blood soaking through his sleeve. 

Remus surreptitiously whispered the tingly little healing charms Sirius had taught him, as they walked to History of Magic, hoping James wouldn’t notice. But, apparently, Remus wasn’t as clever and quiet as he thought he was because within moments he was being tackled by James and Peter who wrenched his hands from his pockets and held them tightly in their own, shaming him all the way to the second floor— Sirius hexed anyone who wolf whistled at them.

Binns was much the same, still dead, still a spectral being haunting his most precious chalkboard filled with complicated timelines and rambling factoids. Still droning on about some old warlock of mediocre talent who attacked and defeated the indigenous magical inhabitants of some far flung loch or speck of rock somewhere and called it progress for magic-kind. Binn’s soporific tones recounted important dates of magical creatures arguing and fighting for equal rights and how wizards made ludicrous excuses not to see their humanity. Generally, Remus found the subject depressing and uncomfortable, and his idle fingers found the scars below his collar bones.

He ducked out of Binns’s class early, feigning a headache. Unable to sit there any longer as he spoke about the 1563 Veela Werewolf Ban of the Scottish Isles, where Hevridus the Howler married a veela and upset everyone in civilised society with their unholy progeny. He rushed down across the grounds with every intention of skipping lunch, not even feeling guilty about facing James afterwards. Since starting term, he’d been fantasising about sitting alone in the greenhouses, no expectations, no interlopers, just  _ stillness _ . 

From what he could see through the mossy humid window panes, Slytherin and Ravenclaw third years were still in greenhouse three. He continued on to Greenhouse two, his favourite, thus far, the one with the cluster of bonsais at the back. He let himself in, breathing in the mossy dampness and letting the humidity wash over him.

Back amid the lushness and assorted potted trees and ferns, Remus familiarised himself with new plants and acquainted himself with older ones. He greeted the mantis, sentry on its  _ ficus sir _ , and watered anyone who looked thirsty. After making his rounds he plopped down on the earthen floor, pulled a shiny red apple from his bag and took a well earned bite. He sat in the healing silence, collecting himself and his swirling thoughts a long while before pulling out his old muggle sketchbook and letting his hand fly across the page in methodical swiping movements. 

Eventually, the bell rang for lunch and Madam Pomfrey found him. “If you're going to be here, you may as well be useful.” She told him by way of greeting and threw him a pair of gloves. 

He spent a sweaty lunch repotting root-bound shrubbery. 

“Loosen it more than that, Lupin, there we are. Shake the dirt off it.” Professor Sprout would encourage. “Careful, the flutterby is very sensitive, be sure to tell it how pretty you think it is, or it might literally die.”

After an hour of sweating and repotting, trimming, watering, and sweet talking sensitive shrubs, the bell rang. He made his way to greenhouse three covered in dirt and took his seat between James and Peter. Sirius slid a toasted sandwich across the bench and James threw a pointed motherly look of disapproval at him as Professor Sprout called them all to attention. 

The next evening, he learned with alarm that Astronomy had taken a turn for the intense. Over their first two years at Hogwarts, they had learned about the constellations, how to divide and chart them in the night sky, watch them move across the horizon and rotate around them. They’d learned folklore of the ancient Greeks, Mongolian, Celts, Khoisan, Egyptians, the Magyars and Vikings. They had learned astrology and the divinatory capabilities of centaurs and how others put meaning and stock into the stars and their paths across the dark dome of the heavens. 

He would listen to Sirius tell them all about his family tradition of naming people after constellations. About his second cousin, Cassiopeia, who sent him and Regulus caramel corn every Yule, but how she also started the family tradition of making muggle effigies to burn at Samhain. Or his Aunt Ursa who loved flower arrangements but hated merpeople, and even had one mounted on her dining room wall. He would listen as Sirius explained his namesake, the brightest star in the night sky, the dog star. How it was the most important star to the Ancient Egyptians, the wolf star to the Hopi.

Now, suddenly, they were learning about  _ math _ . About the difference between a gas giant and dwarf star. About black holes and the heat death of the universe. Up on the astronomy tower with his eye pressed into the telescope, gazing up into the vast nothingness of space, he felt oddly empty and distinctly overwhelmed as Professor Sinistra’s voice spoke of things Remus didn't want to consider. With learned precision she stripped the magic away from Sirius’s dog star, saying “ _ Sirius is a binary star consisting of a main-sequence star of spectral type A0, termed Sirius A, and a faint white dwarf companion of spectral type DA2, termed Sirius B. Now there is still some debate on the categorisation of Sirius A— _ ” 

It gave him this uncomfortably vacant feeling, like the gnawing chasm within him, the one he tried to ignore, was reflected in the void above and below him. The space between the stars and beyond taunted him. It made him feel insignificant, pitifully pointless. As if, conscious existence were some sort of grand cosmic joke, a mistake.

Remus carried that empty, pointless feeling with him into Thursday and to their first Care of Magical Creatures lesson. There they were introduced to a gentle herd of unicorns by Professor Kettleburn. The class had all rushed forward, fawning and gushing over the little golden foals, and seeing them gave Remus a fluttery feeling of hopefulness. Of tentative joy. But, as Remus approached, the adult unicorns threw their heads in agitation, stomping their hooves.

“Back, back, Mister Lupin, they’re shy of boys.” Kettleburn had said. But, there were plenty of other boys, Remus saw, petting and touching the unicorns. Davey Gudgeon, even, was practically draped across one little foal, hugging it with concerning intensity. 

Remus knew with icy certainty, they could smell the wolf. It scared them. 

He couldn’t blame them, either. It scared him, too. 

The small little bit of brightness that the golden foals had sparked in him, dimmed. 

Sirius hung back, too, standing at his side. He nudged his shoulder, distracting Remus from his spiralling thoughts. 

“Poncy things, aren’t they? Too bad they’re not dragons.” He said dismissively, and Remus had snorted in agreement.

______________

Remus lay, restless and tangled in his blankets, the light of a nearly full moon heavy on the horizon spilling in through the mullioned windows of the boys dorm, disallowing sleep to take him. 

His clothes felt too scratchy and tight. Maybe it was his skin, he reckoned. His scars pulled, taut and tingling. He could hear the soft snores of Peter and James, but knew Sirius had snuck out hours before as he had done most nights since the start of term. His stomach was a hollow pit, acid burning low in his throat. He had missed dinner, again. 

He sighed heavily, fists twisting in his mangled sheets. He wished Sirius were there to take him to the kitchens, the coming moon staving off his hunger and keeping him from mealtimes. He felt instantly guilty and embarrassed by the thought. He was an adult, wasn’t he? He could take himself to the kitchens, he could eat like a normal person. He didn't need Sirius to hold his hand, anymore, didn’t need Pomfrey’s refeeding potions. 

He tossed the blankets from him, suddenly filled with energy and determination. He was an adult, and he needed to feed himself. He was going to the kitchens. 

He threw on his grey and green sweater, the one with a drawstring hood, and his purple sweatpants. During the day with the moon but a distant thought, Remus was usually clumsy and uncoordinated, gangly and unbalanced. He had no grace. But, on nights like this, the moon big and heavy and bright, the wolf so close to his skin, his steps were light and quiet, his center of gravity low, his senses heightened. He felt like he was on a hunt, but instead of it making him feel queasy and scared, he felt a little excited to be out on his own. A rare moment where he and the wolf were of one mind and one goal, together. 

He slipped through the portrait, the Fat Lady fast asleep, unaware of his silent steps on the stone floor. He crouched low and slipped through slices of moonlight in the wide empty halls and dark corridors, down, down, down towards the portrait of the fruit bowl. His ears were perked, straining for any sound and his nose detected the faint traces of those who had recently passed on their nightly patrols. 

Remus reckoned he would have been nervous to be out by himself, scared of being caught. But, he was surprised to find that it was  _ fun.  _ Alone in the big quiet castle. Dark and anonymous. No wonder Sirius snuck out all the time. 

He ducked behind a suit of armour when he smelled the caretaker’s cat, Mrs Norris. She was trotting by, on her own hunt, a mouse nearby. When she reached the end of the hall and darted out of sight, he continued, smiling to himself. For once in his life, he was enjoying inhabiting his body. 

Remus made it down to the kitchens without further incident and the elves were pleased to see him, exclaiming that he had just missed young Master Black, and would he care for a drop of brandy in his hot chocolate, as Master Black had? 

“No, no.” Remus insisted, confused and disturbed. He was not about to start drinking brandy like his father, alone in the dark. “Just a normal hot chocolate, please. And, some cheese and fruit, if you wouldn’t mind. I missed dinner.”

At the words,  _ missed dinner _ , the herd of elves bemoaned and exclaimed in horror, rushing about to bring plates and dishes of food of all sorts. 

“The young Mister Lupin is too thin!” cried a houself, pushing a plate of lamb chops towards him. 

“He misses too many meals!” Squeaked another, sliding mashed potatoes under his nose.

“He hasn’t come to visit us or call in  _ months!” _ Moaned another, chopping cubes of Remus’s favourite white cheddar with hurried determination. “Mister Lupin is wasting away, wasting!”

“I am not!” He argued, trying to reject a plate of roast beef in favour of spiced beets. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m eating!”

“We’s be having words with Master Black, we will be.” Another said, ominously, as she shoved chocolate cake up onto the scrubbed tabletop. She turned to unfurl a large serviette before tucking it into Remus’s collar with care and consideration. “He shouldn't be keeping you’s from the kitchens, he shouldn’t. He’s should be bringing yous to us for feeding up.” 

After eating his fill of cheese and sweet peppers, chocolate cake and a few chops, Remus was uncomfortably full. He hadn’t meant to eat so much, hadn’t realised how hard it would be to say no to the worried and frantic elves. 

“I promise, I’m done! I’ve eaten enough!” He insisted, his hand clutching his distended and swollen belly as another elf with large concerned eyes tried to shove a parcel of chocolate croissants beneath his arm. 

“No, Mister Lupin hasn’t.” He insisted, tying the cloth napkin full of treats around his wrist. 

“The sad wolf needs chocolate.” He muttered and Remus moaned, rubbing his eyes in defeat. 

“Okay, yes, fine. I guess the sad wolf does need chocolate, apparently.” He acquiesced, with an exasperated laugh. 

Finally escaping the suffocating affection of the houselves, Remus began to make his way back towards Gryffindor tower, ladened with pastries. He was tired and full and the wolf in him slept, sated and pleased. It made him slower than he had been on his journey down. The wolf wasn’t helping him any longer and he wasn't paying as close attention. His footfalls began to make more noise. 

Lost in thought about how well he would sleep when he returned to his bed, he heard whispers and shuffling feet on the stone floor around the corner from where he crept. He froze for a moment before darting to the side, out of the moonlight and behind a tapestry that concealed a handy niche in the wall. One he had hidden in with James once before. 

“No, I definitely heard someone.” Came a whisper, and footsteps getting closer. 

“Well, a teacher wouldn't hide.” Answered another sneering voice. 

“It must be another student, then.” 

“Do you smell chocolate?” asked another. 

Remus’s heart was in his throat. It was a group of Slytherins. 

From a sliver of light between the tapestry and the wall, Remus could see them emerging into the hall, looking around for obvious hiding places. Severus was among them, wand held aloft. 

Remus cursed himself for leaving the tower and never once considering that other students might also sneak out in the night. He marvelled that after three years, this was the first time he was encountering others out of bed. 

“I definitely heard someone.” Insisted a low voice that Remus thought might have been a fifth year called Flint. 

“Yeah, me too.” Came the deep, guttural voice of a nasty fourth year, Emory Nott. 

Remus clutched his napkin full of pastries and prayed to whatever was listening that they would give up and moved on. 

He had no such luck. 

In a flash, another, older, boy yanked the tapestry back, revealing Remus, now illuminated in moonlight, there in his jammies, his bundle of goodies clutched in his hands. 

“Lupin!” Severus exclaimed, accusatorily. 

“Hullo.” He greeted awkwardly as if this was totally normal. “Anyone fancy a chocolate?” he asked, extending his parcel, hoping aloof kindness might win him some grace. 

The hulking form of Remington Burke sniggered meanly as he snatched the proffered food from Remus’s hands and opened it with a snort. 

“Could give you detention for a week and take about a hundred house points for being out, you know,” Nott said as he took a croissant from Burke and stuffed it in his face, crumbs falling all down his front. Remus’s eyes glanced to Snape hopefully, and he looked back with clear indecision. 

“Are you even a prefect?” Asked Remus, unable to stop himself. 

They all snorted a laugh, save for Severus. No one answered the question. 

“Or we could stuff you in that suit of armour over there and see how long it takes someone to find you.” Offered a spindly Willy Widdershins around a mouth full of flakey pastry. 

“Hey, that’s a great idea.” Said Burke, who reached for Remus. 

He tried to dart out between them, under their outstretched arms and hulking forms, but he wasn't fast enough. Sharp fingers gripped him tightly as he struggled and flailed, trying to kick and punch as hard as he could before  _ WHAM _ . 

All the air in his lungs left in a pained grimace as he was sucker-punched right in the diaphragm, subduing him with a whimper. 

“Hold still, will you.” Burke demanded, hitting him again and he felt bile rising in his throat, threatening. “Snape, do something useful, open that suit of armour.” 

Gasping for breath through his haze of pain and unbidden tears, he saw Severus hesitate for a moment, looking awkward and unsure, wand clutched at his side. 

“I said, open the armour, or you can join him, you little half-blooded shite!” Nott demanded harshly. Snape jumped as if hexed and scuttled towards the suit on a nearby plinth as they dragged a still struggling Remus towards it. 

“Gentlemen.” Greeted a coolly indifferent voice from behind them. Their wrestling match halted for a moment to face the interloper. 

“Ah, Black,” said Nott, and Remus’s blood ran cold. For a horrifying moment, he thought he and Sirius would be shoved into the suit of armour together. But, with an unexpected nod of the head, Nott shot Sirius a cruel smile. 

Sirius took in the sight of Remus held aloft in the arms of his attackers, hands at his side, considering. 

“Put him down, Nott.” He said politely with a wave of his hand as if asking him not to touch his things. 

Nott and Burke exchanged a  _ look _ . A long, calculating look, before setting Remus down on his feet and releasing their bruising grips on his arms. He turned to see Severus and Willy watching the exchange with absolute confusion on their faces as if they’d been smacked with a trout. He felt similarly.

Remus straightened his jumper, pulling the sleeves down firmly over his arms and hands to cover his scars as he walked towards Sirius. 

“Sorry, mate.” Said Burke, clearing his throat. “Didn’t realise this one was yours.”

Remus threw Burke a confused and offended glare, unsure how to feel about that wording. Sirius didn’t look at him when he spoke, just continued to stare back at the two older Slytherins with his arms crossed. “He is, old boy. As is Severus, yours.”

“He isn’t.” Nott waved dismissively. Remus caught the bewildered and possibly hurt look on Severus’s face, but felt oddly relieved that he wasn’t the only one profoundly unbalanced by the turn of events.

“Good to know,” Sirius said, throwing an appraising look at Snape, who flushed angrily. 

“Well, it was a lovely catchup, Gentlemen, but, we must be going.”

He reached over and grabbed the sleeve of Remus’s sweater. Sirius pulled him away from the gang of Slytherins who watched them go without further argument. 

They walked silently down the hall until they were well out of sight. Sirius yanked him into another alcove behind yet another tapestry.

“What the hell, Lupin?” He whispered angrily, grabbing Remus’s face and turning his head, checking for injuries. “Why are you out at night? Are you okay?”

“What, you’re the only one that can go out?” He asked, deflecting, fighting against Sirius’s insistent grip. “What the hell was that all about?”

Sirius dropped his hands suddenly and tried to leave. “Nothing, don’t worry about it.”

Remus blocked his way, crossing his arms. He was full of adrenaline, his limbs buzzing, his heart racing. 

“Move, Lupin.” Sirius whispered impatiently, not looking at him. 

Remus was flooded with anger and embarrassment. That he could be so easily touched and overpowered by others. He was filled with confusion and some weird feeling that Sirius had been able to save him so easily, so unconcernedly. The phrase  _ didn’t know this one was yours _ rang through his head making him feel small and insignificant. Like a dog kept outside, one that roamed neighbourhoods in its owner's absence, rummaging through rubbish bins. 

That’s what he felt like. Not like they were friends, but that Remus was some mangy and troublesome pet that Sirius had to handle, had to feed and care for, get out of trouble. 

Like they weren’t  _ equal. _

“I know you've been keeping secrets, Sirius.” He said, relieved to finally be saying the words he’d been thinking for months. “I know there’s something going on you’re not telling me. You’ve been weird and sad and talking with the Slytherins like you know them, like they know you. And I know you're torn up about Regulus, I know, but, I live with you and somehow those giant gits know you better than I do—”

They heard approaching footsteps on nearby stairs and Sirius quickly put his hand over Remus’s mouth, ending his angry tirade.

“Keep it down, will you?” He whispered grumpily into the hand over Remus’s face, pressing him further into the alcove with his body. Remus could smell the faint waft of brandy on Sirius’s breath and rage simmered in him.

When the footsteps passed, Remus licked the palm of his hand wetly and grossly.

“Oh,  _ come on _ !” Sirius groused, wiping it on his black trousers and stepping back. 

Remus crossed his arms, oddly pleased with his childish act. 

“Admit it. Admit you expect me to tell you all my secrets, that you expect me to put it all out there and be brave and tell you all the terrible things I keep locked up, but you won’t share the same. Admit it.”

Sirius stopped wiping the spit off his hand and looked up to Remus with a caught out expression. 

“Be brave, Sirius.” Remus’s voice dropped, quieter and softer. “You can tell me what’s happening. Maybe I can help.”

“You can’t.” He said, eyes looking slightly panicked. “ I  _ can’t _ .” 

“If I can tell you about being a werewolf, in a world where people from pureblood homes, like you, want me dead— if I can be that brave, then so can you.” 

Sirius shook his head, backing up from Remus. 

“This is different.” He whispered.

“Be a Gryffindor.” Remus pushed. 

“This is bigger than all that, Remus!” Sirius nearly yelled, his harsh voice echoing off the walls. “This is bigger and scarier than houses and shitty families, okay?

“How could it possibly—”

“This is nothing like you being a werewolf or the fact that you can't feed yourself properly or your drunk dad, okay? It's bigger than that. I have to play this game, Remus. It’s the only way I can  _ survive _ , okay? You could  _ never _ understand _ — _ ”

“I could  _ try— _ ” Remus pleaded, wanting to be there for Sirius, wanting to help as Sirius had helped him.

“No.” He said, with finality. “I can’t tell you.”

Remus felt like he’d been slapped in the face. It felt like confirmation of something, like the ground beneath them shifted, again. 

“Okay, fine.” Remus capitulated, his eyes downcast and heart sinking. The air between them grew thick and static. Their magic, careful and still. The wolf in Remus growled low and angry. 

“C’mon, let’s just go to bed.” Sirius said, sounding tired and sad, tugging at Remus’s sweater. 

They walked back to the tower in silence, feet treading gently on the echoing stone floors. They stumbled into bed without another word, but Remus never fell asleep. He listened to the sounds of his three friends, his found family, gently breathing as the moon sank below the mountains and the sun’s first rays spilled out onto the grounds. 

Eventually, as he heard James stir, he realised he was bleeding. Gouged from the crook of his arm, a long, thick scab came away under his nails, sticky with clotted blood. The dull pain and warm blood grounded him as he dressed quickly and quietly and headed for the library. 

______________

Friday morning, Remus and Peter wrote their transfiguration essay on the Lapifors spell for Transfiguration while James and Sirius were off at Arithmancy. 

“Who would want to turn things into rabbits?” Remus muttered to himself, thinking about the uselessness and impracticality of such a spell. “Don’t they breed like mad anyway? Seems irresponsible.”

“Are magically made rabbits  _ real _ rabbits? Or are they different somehow? Like, a mirage of a rabbit? How does magic know what a rabbit even is?” Peter asked, a thoughtful look on his face. 

“That is way too intense of a question for nine in the morning, mate,” Remus said with wide eyes, not wanting to think about the depth and breadth of magic and existence and how they were intertwined, so soon after only just waking up. He was only 13 for Godrick’s sake, weren’t they supposed to be talking about Quidditch? He pressed his fingers into his eyes and tried to shake the errant buzzing thoughts from his head. 

Hours later, during lunch, Peter asked, looking down at his schedule, “Where is our Elenkhrancy class? It doesn't say.” 

They all pulled out their parchment. 

“Does anyone even know who Professor Shafiq  _ is _ ?” James asked. 

Sirius looked down the table, searching for someone, before shouting, “Oi! Prewitt!”

The twins looked up in unison from halfway down the table, mouths full of cornish sausage and potato salad. 

“Where’s Elenkhrancy at?”

Gideon answered around his food, shrugging. “Probably the lake.”

Sirius sat back down and they all looked at one another with raised eyebrows. 

“ _ Probably _ the lake?” Peter asked. 

James shrugged. “Let’s go find out, then.”

Fabian was right. The class was gathering at the edge of the far side of the lake. Purple and red cushions scattered about, the giant squid waving lazy tentacles nearby. 

Professor Shafiq was, for lack of a better word,  _ fascinating _ . 

The class moved tentatively into the informal circle of cushions all eyes fixed on the wildly captivating man before them. He had dark skin like James’s, but a beard whiter and longer than Dumbledore’s. He wore a rather long shapeless white linen dress over matching trousers that stopped above his ankles, showing bare feet. His head was wrapped in a lilac turban, one that brought out his startling green eyes. Eyes which were adorned in dramatic pink and gold eyeshadow, winged eyeliner, and all, though it was partially obscured by his round tortoiseshell glasses. His moustache was beautifully manicured and his wrinkled skin looked somehow youthful.

Remus had never seen an old man so— so  _ pretty _ . Had never considered that a man could be so alluring. It was all very confusing and he didn't want to think about why his hands were sweating. 

After settling themselves down at the professor’s encouragement, Remus looked around at his peers to see similar looks of confusion and apprehension on their faces. Peter and a few others had a stunned, disbelieving sort of gape, as though someone had hit them over the head with a brick. James, Sirius, and a few girls had a sort of excited, enraptured look on their faces as they took in the gold eyeshadow and what seemed to be black nail polish. 

“Good afternoon, everyone,” he smiled kindly, his voice smooth and calming like honey, as he made eye contact with each and every one of them. “Can anyone tell me why we’re here today?”

They all looked around at one another. A Ravenclaw girl’s face twisted in confusion at the question. 

“To learn Elenkhrancy,” she said, but it sounded more like a question. 

“But what is Elenkhrancy, Angela?” he asked, and everyone looked taken aback by the familiarity at which he spoke to her. 

“The pamphlet never said what it was.” Piped up Peter from beside Remus. 

“And yet, you all decided to make this class a significant part of the rest of your magical education.” He said, his eye shadow twinkling in the dappled light of the tree’s canopy. 

They were all quiet for a moment as the professor waited for further engagement. 

“What are we supposed to be questioning?” Sirius asked, looking down at the faded informational pamphlet in his hands. His voice was loud, even over the rustling of leaves and lapping waves of the lake. 

“Everything, Sirius. I want you all to question everything. Everything you ever thought you knew about anything."

Remus had no idea what to make of that but he was entirely enthralled. 

“Ethics,” The professor clarified, “is what we discuss here. The moral philosophy of magic and life at large. Over the next year we’ll discuss the three schools of thought in relation to moral philosophy; virtue ethics, consequentialist ethics, and deontological or duty-based ethics. And, we’ll do this by learning how to think like philosophers. I want us to examine the concept of knowledge, and to ask how do we  _ know _ ? Let’s start by playing a game, shall we?” 

But, the game was like nothing Remus had ever played before. They passed the double period doing an exercise the professor called  _ Ask a Question _ . In which he posed a query, and whoever responded had to do so with another question. No statements, no answers. 

He said this would help them learn to not be satisfied with subpar reasoning, to always look for the layers. It was the kind of amorphous thinking and talking about magic and existence and reality that made Remus moderately uncomfortable. 

“Is it ethical”, he asked, “to create creatures as you are taught to do in transfiguration? To create life without taking responsibility for it, without consideration for its fate?”

“But, it's part of the curriculum—” Rose Spinnet, a Slytherin girl with freckles and wavy black hair, argued. 

“No, Rose— pose a question about it, not a reasoned argument. Let us see how deep we can go.”

“What is fate?” Asked Xavier Smith, a redheaded Hufflepuff, picking up the exercise again. 

“Is fate real?” James asked, looking like he was enjoying every second of the class.

“Do wizards have any real choices in what they do, or are we all slaves to circumstance? Or to desire? Biology? ” Asked the professor in response to James’s enthusiasm. Remus looked over and caught Sirius’s eye, who looked a bit overwhelmed and equally as uncomfortable.

“What choices do we have?” Sirius had asked quietly, dropping his eyes to the grass in front of him.

Professor Shafiq, or Sohail, as he insisted everyone call him, gave them each a simple leather bound notebook at the end of class, exclaiming that they did wonderfully, though Remus couldn’t tell what rubric they were being graded on and so had no idea if that was an accurate statement. 

He told them the notebooks were magically protected. It was for all of their assignments and thoughts, for anything they wanted. No one could read it, or open it, not even the professor himself. 

Remus ran his hands over the smooth cover and felt its magic ripple out, tingling up his arm in welcome. He unwrapped the leather thong from around its binding and flipped through the blank pages, feeling the satisfying texture of the rough edged parchment. 

Their first homework assignment was to write a list of beliefs they had about themselves and others. At least ten of each. James was bouncing up and down, full of excitement and exuberance at the idea of all this self reflecting and thinking and analyzing. Remus felt a little nauseous, and looking over at Sirius, who wouldn’t meet his eye, he knew he wasn’t alone in that. 


	11. Osler's Fire

_ October 21, 1973 _

Her skin was soft and sloping and there was a sheen of oil across her nakedness that smelled of sweet orange and verbena and Sirius remembered feeling so shy to touch her and being so startled by how heavy she was breathing. How closely she was watching him, eyes big and round and smile so disarmingly beautiful and brittle white in the gathering dark. 

He remembered how the bed creaked as they lay down, her afro in a halo, her cheeks and eyes streaked with a powdered gold. She glistened in the dark. She shone. Bright and breathless. There were rose petals beneath them that night. 

She had felt so kind and unassuming and safe. Sirius remembered wishing she would speak. Wishing she would make any sound. So many nights since he has been pulled into dreams just like this one. Just the same smell of sweet orange and verbena and the softness of her skin and he’s wondered about her voice. And her name. 

He looked up from the scene below him, looked up from her soft belly and the fullness of her breasts and the way she shone in the dark with her legs around his hips, but it was too late to ask her, to think. He was too overcome with a flood of warmth and pleasure and her eyes, so empty and serene and golden beneath her halo were all drifting into the nothingness of night. 

He knew he was awake because he’d heard himself groan, and he was suddenly brutally aware of the damp of his own skin, sheets twisted about his legs, sweat on his bare chest and the humidity of his cosseted four poster, shut behind the thick, red hangings. 

His breathing was still loud in the relative quiet of the night. There was a soft hooting of hunting owls and the winds sweeping down from the north, but the castle was dark and still and Sirius felt as though he might be the only one pulled so disarmingly from the depths of sleep. James was snoring. 

He reached down and silently cursed as he felt the wetness that had marked the front of his pants, wondering if he could fight the bone deep tiredness that was threatening to pull him right back into sleep. Eventually, he pulled off and discarded the pants, drawing his comforter back over himself and falling easily and completely back into restless, wanton dreams. 

_____________

_ October 26, 1973 _

Sirius was in the western courtyard on Friday afternoon, leaned back against an old wisteria vine that wound its way up to the trellis above, the low sun making modest attempts to warm the grey stone. On his lap was Ru Garr’s  _ Beasts of the Northern Forests _ , and he was flipping through it idly, reading over the descriptions of endemic dragon species. 

James, the great fool, was in muggle studies, so Sirius had wandered out into the afternoon to idle away the hour before Elenkhrancy, leaving Peter and Remus to wax aggrieved over that morning’s Charms lesson on flame-freezing spells, a fan favourite in the witch burnings of the 17th century. Peter and Remus may have struggled to get the flames to run cold, but this spell was old news to the family Black. He’d had a great, great, great aunt who’d been at the stake ad nauseam, and his mother never tired of telling the story and reliving the magic. 

Sirius had paused with the flat of his hand beside the little block of text beneath a beautiful pen and ink rendering of a Hebridean black, circling her clutch of eggs. Nostrils flared. Claws sunk into the earth, tail poised as if readied to whip about in an instant. 

_ The Hebridean species are a brutish, dull group of immense size and power, but limited capacity for thought. Their first instinct is always to violence, and thus their breeding and foraging ranges should be greatly restricted for the safety of the wizarding and non-wizarding populace. Culling was instituted in the late 1950s and continued for decades throughout the British Isles.  _

“Black.” The voice carried across the stone courtyard and cut cleanly through his mutinous mutterings and cursings of Ru, who’d clearly never seen the dragons of old in flight. Never seen them dip and dive and call to one another. Never seen the tenderness of the mother when her eggs finally hatched. Sirius had curled his hand into a fist. 

A short fourth year Ravenclaw with dark hair and dull eyes was wandering toward Sirius, his gait just a shade unsteady, his robes rumpled and his left shirt collar sticking up. 

“Yaxley.” Sirius said, watching the other boy approach. Gods, he looked a mess. Not that he’d been doing well at the end of the last year, not since Ishtar, no. But Sirius had hoped, given time, he’d find his place in survival. Find peace with the things they carried. The secrets. 

Didn’t look as though he was fairing well, though. 

Cadmus Yaxley sat down heavily beside Sirius, his limbs seeming to drape oddly around him, as if they had no real purpose, no instruction from on high. 

“You look well, you bastard.” Yaxley fished in his pocket. His hair was greasy and untidy, and his cheeks were ruddied in a way that didn’t speak of the cold wind or the pink of embarrassment. “Good summer?”

“Yeah. I suppose it was.” Sirius answered, unsure how to respond. It had been. It had been the best summer of his life. He’d been happier, more free, than he’d ever been before, even here, at Hogwarts. And, though the guilt of leaving Regulus was thick and uncomfortable still, he’d spent long hours convincing himself that perhaps he would’ve gone to Slytherin even if he’d stayed. Maybe, perhaps, if he was really getting into the matters, he wasn’t really to blame for Regulus’s choice. If it was a choice. And who was he to say. He didn’t  _ really _ know, after all. 

In the midst of Sirius’s internal monologue, Yaxley had huffed, rather sourly actually, and finally found what it was in his pocket he was so determined to retrieve. A little flask, silver and unassuming. He spun the top open and brought it up to his lips for a thick drink of whatever it contained. 

“Steady on.” Sirius said, eyebrow raised at Yaxley’s enthusiasm for the stuff. He watched him swallow hard and wipe at the corners of his mouth, before passing the flask unceremoniously over to Sirius. 

Sirius took it and sniffed. Brandy, by the smell of things. He took a modest drink of the stuff. Too sweet for his taste, really. He liked Cadmus better when they drank fire whiskey together and smoked clove cigarettes that Cadmus had stolen from a convenience store in the south of London. There was a lot more laughter then than now with the sad, sullen version of Cadmus that drank brandy in the daylight hours, nothing else to keep their hands busy and their breath full of smoke. Small dragons themselves, perhaps they imagined. 

If dragons ever coughed on their own fire, that is. Fancy smokes, they were, but they settled with a burn.

“Enough for me, thanks. I’ve got Elenkhrancy up next and I’ll need my wits about me with Shafiq.” Sirius pulled the yew wand from the bun high on his head and straightened out Yaxley’s robes for him, giving him a good freshening charm as well. For all the magic, he still looked miserable, was a bit sweaty and still smelled just a tad too sweet. No cloves, no. Just sweat. 

“It’ll be okay, Cadmus. We just gotta make it past these years. These are the hard ones, yeah? Things will pick up.” Sirius was brushing lint from the shoulder of Yaxley’s robes as he spoke. Gods, this kid was a mess. 

“Yeah. Just six more months to another Ishtar, Black. Then I’ll have a whole new rape fantasy to keep me up at night. Maybe this time she won’t scream so much.” Yaxley laughed in a horrible, angry way. “Maybe I won’t, either.” 

There was a long silence between them. In the distance, a bell rang, and the movement of students within the castle grew like a low rumble in the distance.

“Elenkhrancy. That’s with Shafiq, isn’t it?” Yaxley was eyeing Sirius. “One of us, you know. I wonder if he ever celebrated. Noah and Eli of Slytherin are nearly old enough to join. I think they’re nephews of his.” 

Sirius hummed low in his throat. He didn’t like to think about it too hard. He liked Professor Shafiq. Well, he’d learned to like him. Slowly. Over these last few weeks. He felt safer than the others. Kinder. He didn’t want to imagine him revelling in the rites. Handing out gold coins. 

“Dark, isn’t it?” With that, Cadmus took another long draw on his flask before shoving it back into his deep pockets, struggling to his feet, wandering off back toward the castle. Out of the sunlight, then, out of sight. 

Sirius lay back against the wisteria, chin tilted up to the sky so that he could watch the clouds drift in the cold wind far above. He wished for one of the clove smokes with their soft paper and their crackling ash, the way they’d crinkle as you pulled in breath. He thought about the romance of the purple smoke and steady, slow burn. He thought about how he’d let the smell hang on his lips and he wouldn’t cough next time, no. He’d be buzzed and light on the tobacco and the purple smoke and the way it made him feel airless, like the whiskey had. Unattached to this earth. Unencumbered.

He thought about the muggle with the blank eyes and the dark skin that reminded him of James and the smile that spoke of forgiveness. Forgiveness. Airy as the smoke. Effortless, the way it drifted. The way she pulled him toward her, enveloped him. She was effortless and kind and so was Professor Shafiq and who was he to lie to himself and say that their interactions were safe and reasonable. Kind. 

Or, perhaps that’s just what he’d had to tell himself to keep his own disgust at bay. To forget the emptiness of an imperiused mind. Empty. Full of air. To ignore the idea that some monsters hide easily in plain sight, up close and cozy. 

He shut the book in his lap, Ru’s words drifting off into the afternoon to make room for far heavier thoughts. He stuck his yew wand back up in his tied back hair and wished for the simple distraction of a smoke. For another pull on the brandy, too sweet. 

There was no forgiving what they’d done. And there was no forgiving that he’d do it again come spring. Survival. It was like that, wasn’t it? Somewhere, there’d be room for forgiveness, right?

______________

Elenkhrancy was a smoky and turbid affair that afternoon. Sirius lost the heaviness of Cadmus and his brandied musings just as soon as he caught up with Peter, James and Remus, who were all piling through the narrow door to the spare classroom on the first floor all at once, James catching an elbow to his face and Peter slipping in low past Remus’s narrow hip. 

There was incense burning and scattered throw cushions on Persian carpets, little emerald satin poofs and steeping kettles on silver tea trays. Professor Shafiq was stirring mint leaves, eyeliner thick and dark, but cheeks warm and smile welcoming, his robes pale pink with gold and green embroidery. 

Sirius sat in the back, James already pulling his worn notebook from his school bag, whispering frantic questions to Remus about aeroplanes and their role in the war with Grindelwald, to which Remus was whispering furiously back. 

Sirius leafed through his Elenkhrancy notebook, pages mostly blank. He’d been dodging the actual act of writing down the answers to the questions they discussed in class, though he did find himself drifting off with them in the long hours of the evenings, when he had quiet moments to himself. 

It was just last week that one question they’d discussed in class had kept him up all that Friday night pondering, and he had finally nicked James’s cloak and stolen up to the top of the astronomy tower, needing more room for his thoughts to drift out amongst the planetary bodies of the universe. 

“How do you know what is true? What is right? Where does your moral compass come from.” 

Where  _ does _ his moral compass come from? Sirius had given himself wrinkles the way he’d furrowed his brow and chewed his lip and cast curse magic into the nothingness of the night. 

How could he answer that? It came from within, didn’t it?

Didn’t it?

He’d drawn a little sketch of the constellations and the line of the mountains in the dark, the way the trees twisted and furled about the topography of the earth, though he passed over this page quickly, his ears ringing with Professor Shafiq’s gentle welcome of the class and an invitation to discuss their new topic. 

What is magic? And from whom is it gifted?

Sirius heard Peter sigh heavily beside him, his head bowed down low. “My head already hurts.” He said softly into the thickly woven carpet. 

______________

_ November 3, 1973 _

The sun rose in the east, much as it had all the years, and Sirius found no new relief in the idea that today marked another year gone. He was quite sure being fourteen would just be more of the same, and he wasn’t immediately proven wrong. 

At breakfast, he watched across the great hall as Regulus ripped into a giant gift basket of honeydukes chocolates and a new pair of mittens, made from demiguise hair and imbued with warming charms, no doubt. They were green and silver and Sirius watched Regulus pull them on, smile full. 

He watched that little scab on his left, Noah Shafiq, devour a slab of crusted peppermint white chocolate as little Barty Crouch Jr. pulled the matching woollen hat over his sandy hair, Regulus laughing and smiling between them. 

They’d done it on purpose, of course. Well, by they he really meant his mother. The two stately dark grey eagle owls that delivered the bursting basket of sweets and winter warmth were her favourite pair, Otho and Galba, predatory beasts that they were. The demiguise hair and the magic, the chocolate and the public showing of affection for her youngest, they weren’t gifts, really. 

No, these simple things, they were instruments to wound her less palatable offspring. Delivered to her favourite on Sirius’s birthday. A reminder that the world was cold and lonely and unfavourable for her less accommodating son. He doubted Regulus would remember, nor would he ever make the connection. 

James nudged Sirius, following his gaze, watching several Slytherins now joining in to try and catch several chocolate frogs that had since escaped and were making bids for freedom across the breakfast table. 

“What’s the occasion?” James asked, mouth full of rashers and eggs, glass of orange juice halfway to his still chewing mouth. 

Sirius turned back to his friend and housemate, his face schooled blank and a familiar, patrician heaviness about his insides. “Not sure.” Sirius turned his attentions back to the pile of bacon in front of him and added a second helping of diced potatoes to his plate. His coffee was strong and bitter this morning, and he drained the mug with a determination that was immediately misinterpreted by his fellows. 

“Have no fear, my fellow beater, we’ll be top form on the pitch today, hangover be damned. I’ve missed you, you know, you little blighter. You didn’t come up to the soiree we hosted. Was a hell of a time. Ladies aplenty.” It was Gideon’s voice, loud and clear and confident over the heads of the Gryffindors as the two twin brothers made their way down to the far end of the bench, Gideon’s easy swagger and Frank’s straight spine, both of them freckled and strawberry blonde. Sirius raised his mug to them in a kind of sombre, mock salute. Gideon winked back. 

Fabian rested a hand on James’s shoulder and made similar, yet less incriminating, proclamations of favouritism, all the while staring down the table at once-again Captain Frank Longbottom, who was rolling his eyes and waving them away, far more intent on finishing his conversation with a fourth year Ravenclaw who had white blonde hair and eyes that crinkled up when she smiled. Eventually, Cordelia stood from between several chattering sixth years and whistled, which pulled them all to their feet as they shuffled out of the great hall and down to the pitch. 

Sirius caught sight of Regulus just as he was following Gideon out the doors to the foyer beyond, and his little brother waved haphazardly, new hat placed skew on his too-long black hair. Sirius couldn’t help but smile, and lifted his hand in a half wave back before Regulus was distracted again by his house-mates. 

The day was cold and clear, the sky a sharp blue that felt endless and uniform. Sirius spent much of the morning shielding his eyes with one arm from the low sun while the other swung about recklessly, seeking the familiar threat of iron and the sinister whistling of an incoming bludger. 

The oak was solid and familiar in his hand, and after a few mis-hits and some ugly swings with quite bad form, Sirius finally fell into a rhythm. He leaned forward on his old school broom and dove, body close and the wind sharp on his features, thoughts of his dreams and the cruelty of his parents and the birthday no one wanted to celebrate seeming to fall away as his bat came up to slice through the air and connect to the spinning bludger with a satisfying crack. 

Danae let out a whoop from her station at the middle hoop and Sirius heard Gideon’s laugh somewhere far above. He hunted his bludger after that, keeping close on it’s swerving tail, hot and hungry in the November sun, sweat breaking out on his forehead and running down his back and the thirst for a good chase and the satisfaction of the synergy of each landed blow seeming to pepper his skin and burn away his more troubling ruminations. Nothing patrician here, no. 

Back on the pitch, he and Gideon covered in grass stains from having wrestled the two bludgers back into their respective chains, Frank thanked them all for their heart, their dedication, their love of the game. They trooped back to the change rooms, James awash with the thrill of flying with his mates again, no hint of the nerves and the questions that had followed their debut the previous year. They bumped shoulders together, both of them 

“Did you see little Gloria McKinnon fly yesterday? The second year? Marlene’s little sister? She’ll be a shoe in for Keeper next year when we lose Danae. She’s sharp as a knife, that one. She’s tiny but she can keep. That’ll be one to watch, Sirius, I’m telling you.” 

Sirius mhm’ed and let James carry on as he unlaced his leathers, stowing the school broom he’d practically stolen for his own with his other gear. He looked down at his hands, the palm of his right rubbed red and nearly raw. 

On inspection, his oak beater’s bat had quite the crack running through the handle, the tape around the grip frayed. It had made enough of a lip that his palm had worn and his skin peeled open, bit by bit, on the minuscule lip of exposed wood. It must have happened on that last drill where he and Gideon snapped a bludger back and forth between them in rapid succession as they zipped down the far end of the pitch. 

“Better get that seen to before next week. Or get gloves. I never understood why you won’t just go out and get yourself a nice set of dragon hide. Seemed like it’d be right up your alley.” 

James nudged him hard and Sirius spun the bat in his hand, bringing it up between himself and James, “Oi, watch it you pillock. I’m not afraid of a little friction burn.” 

Sirius threw his gear in his locker and pulled on his snowdonia t-shirt, throwing his hair back up into a messy bun, sticking his wand through it, as was custom. He sighed deeply and stretched. His skin felt uncomfortably tight. He’d forgotten it for a bit, flying, bat in hand, but now that he was back on the ground, it had returned.

“C’mon mate let’s get back up to the castle, I’m hungry as a hippogriff and I’ve got Muggle Studies to finish. Think Remus will help us with that Herbology essay?” James was pushing his hair into place.

“It’s not full moon. Not until the tenth.” James stopped and turned back to look at Sirius, who continued. 

“Let’s go to the forest tonight, rather.” Sirius had the words out before he really knew what he was saying. They had been leaving the change rooms and were about to climb the hill back to the castle when his gaze had been pulled back to the shade between the trees and forest grapes with their large, square leaves that loved the dappled light and the warmth they could garner in the day. It was so inviting. So reminiscent of freedom. Of flying. With a little more danger, and what was that really but an accoutrement? 

James raised his eyebrows and regarded Sirius. “Well okay then Black. I see someone’s got a penchant for mischief going lately.” He cracked his knuckles and started back up toward the castle. 

“Just have a bit of a whim to get up to no good.” Sirius said, the smile on his face back to being haughty and confident and comfortable. He could hear the forest thrushes calling to one another in the darkness of the canopy. 

“Well that’s all fine and good but I need lunch first.” James said, striding away. Sirius barked a laugh and jogged to catch up. Yes, lunch first. Then mischief. Let Gideon and his soirees be damned.

_____________

Bright cold and clear. The waxing moon had risen after nine, but the four boys had long since slipped from the castle walls under James’s cloak and off into deepening night. 

They’d shed its protection just beyond the eastern edge of the lake, hiking along the birch and willow lowlands, Remus in the lead, his strides long and his breath an even mist in the quiet. 

Remus changed in the forest at night, and Sirius, for once, didn’t mind trailing behind as he struck a confident path between fallen trees and over the little tributaries that found their way to the depths of the Great Lake. Occasionally he’d lift his chin to the air, breathing deeply, and Sirius watched as his whole body sung with the euphoria of the forest, with the hunt, with the chase. 

He didn’t mind trailing Remus. He didn’t mind watching, no. All four of them trekked along in silent kinship. 

It had started innocently enough, with James and Sirius finding Peter and Remus at the Gryffindor table for a late and leisurely lunch, the tables thick with gammon and roast ox, shepherds pie and orange-based goose. James had fell upon the meal with the grace of a drowning man, Sirius not far behind, loading his plate with honeyed dishes and the rarest of steaks. 

Even Remus had been neatly shearing chicken meat off small cooked bones, deep in conversation with Peter, who, in quite the departure from his usual abhorrence of his studies, had several textbooks laid out between them. 

_ 1001 Magical Herbs and Fungi _ was flipped open to the chapter on healing plants, soft green illustrations of veined leaves and hollow stems, dusky pink flowers and one very intimidating looking blue fungi. Sirius tipped his head to the side to read the passage that Peter had been pointing to over his plate of neatly char-grilled sausage. 

_ Thermophilus xanthosis _ is a rare algae found in hot springs and other geothermic hotspots around the world. Initially invisible to the unaware observer,  _ Thermophilus _ fluoresces a bright neon yellow in the presence of movement, appearing to provide a bright, ethereal glow to anyone who enters water where it is dwelling. 

Trained herbologists may be able to note the faint smell of sulphur that  _ Thermophilus xanthosis _ emits during its replication cycle, though this is an unreliable sign for the average enthusiast, and may require significant olfactory prowess to reliably locate. 

While  _ Thermophilus _ was once harvested sustainably from communities that lived alongside these geothermic vents, their application in healing potions and remedies led to a “sulphur rush” in the early 1790s, resulting in the complete eradication of the species from most known habitats. 

Efforts to replicate the algae’s healing powers were undertaken in the late 1800s, and a less potent relative of  _ T. xanthosis, T. veridans _ was discovered in the lime caverns of Mount Sodom in Israel.  _ T. veridans  _ is perhaps not as potent as  _ T. xanthosis _ , but is far more readily available and has given healing poultices and creams its green coloration ever since. 

A rough sketch of a shallow pool in a rock crevasse was inked beside the text, with a strange yellow glow accompanying several ripples. Sirius had never been one for herbology, really, no that was more Peter’s and sometimes Remus’s forte. He was surprised then, to hear James interject.

“Oh yeah, nothing beats Osler’s fire my dad used to say. He and his buddy spent a whole year camping around known geothermic hotspots in southern Iceland when he was younger. Thought they’d find a pool of it and make it big in the healing potions market. That was before Sleekeazy’s, you know.” His voice was thick and muddled by a large helping of pineapple ham he had been working his way through. 

“Osler’s fire?” Peter said, his brow creased. “Is that what they used to call  _ Thermophilus xanthosis _ ?” 

“Yep,” James continued, swallowing down about a half litre of pumpkin juice. “Osler was some wizard healer the muggles used to go to for their muggle maladies. Aches and pains and syphilis or whatever. He was great shakes at muggle medicine so all the healers of his day used to say he must have found a great vat of it somewhere and used that to heal everyone.” James added several more of the char-grilled sausages to his plate, looking about for another serving dish of the mash. 

Remus, hands wiped clean on a cloth serviette in his lap, was back to absentmindedly thumbing the scab at his cheek, deep in thought. “I’ve heard that name before. Osler’s fire. I just can’t remember… Can’t quite think…” He had that distant, Remus-y look, and Peter caught his hand and pulled it away from his chin. 

“Quit it Remus. That’s why we were looking up healing plants in the first place.” Peter dished a few more portions of the orange chicken onto Remus’s plate. 

“Look at this James, he’s got this nasty wound on his forearm from last moon that won’t heal.” Peter pulled Remus’s knit sweater up to his elbow and exposed a white bandage, clearly from the hospital wing, that had already turned a bit yellow and wet from whatever wound was seeping beneath it. It looked positively foul. 

“Shhh.” Remus hissed at Peter, glancing around the hall to make sure no one had overheard his quip about the moon and tugging his sleeve back down, albeit gingerly. Luckily, the hall was scattered and small groups of students were clustered together, not much minding the four of them and their far end of the Gryffindor table. 

It was a few hours later, while the four of them were quietly working away in the Gryffindor common room that Remus brought it up again. 

“Osler’s fire!” He positively shouted into the quiet, standing up and knocking the small ebony end table over, causing a full pot of ink to spill over Peter’s nearly finished potions essay. Sirius jumped so badly his Arithmancy homework went scattering across the rug, his quill snapped in his hand. 

“Godrick’s left nut, Lupin. What the hell are you on about.” Sirius said, grabbing his wand from his bun to spell his quill back together and siphon the ink from Peter’s essay. 

Remus was standing, nearly maniacal with intensity, shoving his copy of  _ Hogwarts, A History _ at James, who was closest to him, and seemed the least afflicted by the disturbance. 

“Here, just here. I knew I’d seen it before! Look.” The three of them stopped mitigating the damage he’d caused and rather crowded around Remus and his tremulous intensity. “You know how Bathilda Bagshot filled that last chapter with myths and legends and unconfirmed rumours about the castle and the grounds? Well look here.” 

He nearly threw the book into James’s lap, and Sirius and Peter both hunched in close to read over his shoulders. 

_ Beyond the fantastical legend of the chamber of secrets and the sordid tale of Rowena’s lost diadem, the castle and it’s grounds have also been cited as one of the last remaining natural reservoirs of Osler’s fire. A series of handwritten notes by the renowned alchemist Abelard Flamel was recovered in 1832 in a French apothecary. _

_ Though water damaged and faded, the notes seemed to reference a series of lochs in northern Scotland, deep within the forbidden forest, that still held trace amounts of the algae. While it is true that Abelard had been declining in his later years and suffered from bouts of delusions and magical thinking, often found wandering the streets of Paris late into the evening in naught but his underclothes, there are those that wonder if his claim held any grain of truth. _

_ Expeditions to the area seemed to have been planned over the years by rash enthusiasts, but were never carried out thanks to the remoteness, danger and magical protection offered to the forest by several conservation organisations and multiple magical governments.  _

As soon as Sirius had finished reading, and quite a few moments before Peter seemed to have reached the end of the page, Remus was snatching the book back and flipping to the inside back cover, where a large map of the castle and the grounds was detailed in finely drawn black ink. 

Remus, quill between his teeth, jabbed his finger down in the far northwestern quadrant of the map, just east of the far reaches of the Great Lake. 

“Look.” He said again, his voice muffled by the quill. 

And there, just beneath his pointed finger, was the tiny inscription  _ Abelard’s Lochs _ . The four of them were silent. 

Sirius had, eventually, cleared his throat. “Well, gents, I had been meaning to ask you. Anyone fancy a night time stroll?” And none of them had been difficult to convince, though Peter had insisted they all wear hats and gloves, given the deepening winter cold. 

And that had led them to now, the four of them trooping along behind Remus, who, in all his wolfish olfactory prowess, had stuffed his textbook and it’s finely drawn map into his backpack only twenty minutes in to their hike, his green cap drawn low over bright pink cheeks and a muttered commentary on how he could smell the sulphur from there. 

James, who was hurrying just behind Remus, had opted for Gryffindor red, and while his skin didn’t turn as frost red as Remus’s or Peter’s, Sirius could tell he hated the deep chill, and was eager to get to their destination and turn around home as soon as he could. 

They walked in silence mostly, Sirius listening hard for the rustle of low branches or the swift whirring of bat wings beneath the trees. They’d startled a small unicorn herd about an hour after they’d started following the willows around the lake, and there’d been an otter that slipped deftly into the still water of the lake edge, though they’d been alone beyond that. 

When the birch and the willow began thinning into blackthorns and elm and the hooting of the owls that hunted the woods beyond the castle became infrequent and soft, Remus finally turned from the lakeshore and led them along a small tributary stream that trickled in from the high slate mountains to the east. From there, they climbed the gently up-sloping foothills that became more barren and windswept the higher they ascended, granite boulders seeming to have paused, mid tumble, halfway up the mountainside. 

At the rocky summit, they paused beneath the clear night sky, turning to see the silvery lake behind them, winding between gentle foothills all the way back to the now distant castle. On the far side of the mountain, a shallow valley stretched before them, seeming to rise gently and distantly in the north, peppered with fruiting blackthorn trees and frost-hardened leafless apple groves, more collections of boulders and flat areas of slate interrupting the trees. 

At the centre of the valley, Sirius could just make out a system of shallow rock pools, steam furling gently from them, creeping up between fissures in the granite or seeming to drift off of large slabs of slate, dark and serene. 

“Whoah.” Came Peter’s small voice as he crested the ridge behind Sirius, his own breath coming heavy and hard. 

“Excellent.” James said, his grin wide. 

“Let’s go.” Remus bit out, his nose wrinkled. For the first time since they had begun the trek, Sirius also caught just the faintest whiff of rotten eggs on the tumbling gusts of wind. 

The four of them made their way down the steep wall of the valley, the seats of their pants muddied as they slid beneath fruiting blackthorn trees, Peter stopping thrice to grab handfuls of ripe sloe berries, and his lips and cheeks were painted deep purple by the time they reached the first spring. It was shallow and wide and the water perfectly still and clear.

James reached down to run his hand through the water, disturbing it in little rippled waves. No yellow glow followed. 

“No algae, but it’s gloriously warm. I’m tempted to try for a swim even if no healing powers come of it. It’s like bathwater.” 

“I can smell the sulphur though. I think there might be algae in some of the pools further up the chain. Look at how the valley continues higher up north. Let’s just see if we can’t find any. And if not, we’ll find a nice big one we all can take a swim in.” Remus turned and pushed aside the branches of a barren pear tree and climbed his way up the granite boulders and slate ledges that seemed to pepper the midline of the valley. 

“Lead the way, Remus.” Sirius said, wiping his muddied hands on his trousers. 

The three of them fell back into their formation, Peter occasionally humming odd ooh’s and ahh’s at the plant-life they encountered along the way. At one point, Sirius looked back from a rock wall he’d just summited to catch him pulling small shears from his bag and snipping off leaves and berries to put into glass jars. 

“Over here!” Came Remus’s voice, and the three others startled in the loudness of his call in the otherwise silent night, Sirius stooping to hoist Peter up the rest of the rock face and James jumping from boulder to boulder above them. 

“What is it Remus?” James called out, panting hard as he scrambled down to another rocky ledge at the base of the last cliff face. 

“Osler’s fire.” Remus answered, and Sirius could hear the smile and excitement in his voice before he’d even pulled aside the bushes and reeds that were growing alongside a large and rather deep pool of crystalline water. 

Just beyond the thick marsh grasses and between large moss-covered boulders, the pool seemed to emerge from beneath the rock cliff itself, tiny trickles of water pouring forward from fissures in the granite face. Steam drifted lazily from the smooth surface of the water, and the smell of sulphur was enough to make Sirius’s eyes water, but only for a moment. 

Little lilies bloomed on the edges of the rock pool, orchids nestled themselves in little moss covered outcroppings on the rocks and in the trees that seemed to shelter the hot spring from the sky above, only a thin band of stars peeking through the attendant boughs. 

“Wow.” Peter had caught up behind him and was peeking over Sirius’s shoulder. He felt James lay a hand across his arm on his other side. 

“I can smell it too, now.” James said into the silence and the steam. “But how do we know it’s really Osler’s fire?”

“I can see it.” Came Remus’s voice, who had knelt down and was leaning his bony hand out over the water. At his words, he dragged his whole palm over the glassy surface, creating a great wave that rose and then dispersed across the pool. 

Even through the steam, there came an ethereal yellow glow. 

“Aha!” James practically yelled, whooping and clapping. He dropped his bag in an instant, pulling off his hat and gloves before wrestling his shirt that had been tucked so diligently into his trousers. “Come on you fools. Last one in is a twice betrayed harpy!” 

Sirius barely caught on to what was happening by the time James threw his shirt and pants and trousers all in one bundle into his arms, leaping by him stark naked to throw himself into the water, which positively ignited as he leapt from the ledge into the centre of the deep pool. 

“Oi! Wait for me you dolt!” Sirius found himself yelling as he dropped James’s clothes and similarly divested himself of all the winter wear he’d piled on. In the moment, he didn’t once stop to think how odd the scars and marks across his body may look, nor did he care, because James was swimming in a hot spring that looked as though it were made of pure sunlight and the only thing he could possibly feel in that moment was jealous. 

He kicked off his shoes and pulled the cuffs of his pants down off his ankles, his snowdonia shirt long since cast aside. He left everything in a pile at the base of one of the taller trees, its buttressed roots long since having found every niche and corner of earth amid the rock, and flung himself similarly into the deep centre of the flaming water. 

It was warm and cosseting and felt sweet and a bit salty and the yellow erupted around him like stepping into high noon on a summer’s day. It felt beautifully surreal, here in the dark and the depths of winter, to be so gifted by kindness spilling from the core of the earth. 

Peter was about halfway undressed, a bit shy of his nakedness, dipping one bare toe into the pool. “Oh Morgana that’s warm.” He muttered, throwing the rest of his things on the pile and sloshing his way in from the shallows. He dunked himself and came up a second later, spluttering. “Tastes like bad eggs!” 

Sirius and James laughed deeply and heartily, both of them instantly swimming to each edge of the wide, steaming basin, exploring all the nooks and crannies, hampered only slightly by the yellow glow, which was seeming to diminish as the water was more and more disturbed by their antics. 

Remus stood by the pile of clothes they had discarded, and was gingerly folding his grey and green sweater, his button down and his corduroys. His scuffed shoes were placed gently beside them. He was bony and awkward and didn’t seem to be able to reconcile that he, in fact, too had a body, and it was visible, and so were all his scars. 

He stood in his oldest pair of pants, shivering a bit, slowly unwrapping the bandage from his forearm. 

“Sometime this century, Lupin. Get in here. It’s right balmy.” James said, doing a lazy, completely unashamed backstroke, across the middle of the pool. 

“Yeah Remus, come get a bit of the fire on you. It feels fabulous. I’m sure it’ll heal you up right as rain.” Sirius said, having found a nice underwater ledge to sit on by the far edge of the pool so that he could rest his back against the rock wall, chin just barely above water, mouth and nose full of the pungent steam. 

Peter had out his magnifying glass (somehow) and was studying the flora of the pool edges, he’d already scooped a sample of the water into a glass jar that was sitting on the dry ledge. 

Remus sighed and finally pulled his pants down his bony, narrow hips, his long thighs ending in terribly knobby knees and sharp shins. Even the bones of his feet looked oddly protuberant. Sirius made a mental note to remind the house elves to leave more chocolate laying around. 

Sirius watched Remus gingerly step into the water, his hands over his privates, obviously so uncomfortable with the three of them watching, but his face relaxing at the warmth of the healing spring. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He finally muttered to himself, clearly impatient with his fumbling need for modesty. Eventually, he resigned himself to striding forward and throwing his long, narrow body into the burst of yellow light that emerged around him, nakedness be damned. 

Sirius whistled and James whooped as Remus surfaced, flipping back his sandy blonde hair, his eyes crinkled shut and the smile wide and resplendent on his face, which had never looked so free from discomfort. Even the tightness of the scar across his cheek seemed to give way to the warmth and the glow of the algae. 

Remus swam a few laps, racing James in freestyle and breaststroke, the two of them neck and neck, Remus finding himself quite adept in this new medium, below water. 

Eventually, they both tried and joined Sirius on his ledge of submerged rock. 

“Gods, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good.” Remus said, his green eyes with brown flecks soft and at ease. He had never really looked this good, thought Sirius to himself. Remus always had been baseline uncomfortable, a bit bent oddly, strained. 

Not now. No, now he looked flush and free and brutally happy. It was gloriously disarming. 

“How’s your arm then, Remus?” Asked Peter, who was returning from exploring the bed of reeds that seemed to house several other exotic species. 

“Like it’d never been injured at all.” Remus held it out for all to see, his forearm perfectly knit together, flesh pink and unmarred, not even a freckle out of place. 

“Brilliant.” Said James, who had to squint at the arm rather badly without his glasses, but there was no denying the improvement the water had made. 

The four of them sat in the warm, clear water of the hot spring a moment, Sirius overcome with a sense of deep calm and resolute happiness.

“This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.” He said, breaking the stillness. 

Remus immediately rolled his eyes, splashing Sirius with a handful of water. “Git.” 

James was open mouthed, staring. “How dare you keep this from us? Sirius. We’re mates. Best mates.” He, too, gave in to splash a fistful of water at Sirius’s face. 

“Oi! Watch it. I don’t owe you fools anything. Didn’t think it was a big deal, really.” 

“Not a big deal? Sirius, everything else about you is a bloody big deal, why not this?” Remus snorted. 

“Guys…” Peter’s voice was oddly tremulous, and he was standing at the far edge of the rock pool, by the shallows where he’d entered. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Remus knitted his brows while he tried to knock water from his ears, trying to concentrate.

“Can’t hear anything, Pete, just the dulcet tones of this plonker’s first ever moment of humility.” James was still trying to splash Sirius, clearly fake-hurt by his friend’s silence. 

Sirius did hear something, though, and the smile slid from his face as he motioned for James to shush, putting one hand on Remus’s shoulder to get him to stop frantically trying to shake his head clear. 

It was an odd sound. Like something rushing through the air above them, like beating wings and the stretch of leathery hide. If Sirius hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought it sounded like a small dragon, but it was too fast, too feather light. 

But then. Then it screeched. 

A bone shearing sound that felt like ice poured directly down one’s spine, even still sunk below the warmth of the vernal spring. 

“Fuck.” Sirius spit, swimming quickly for the other shore, blood rushing in his ears, James and Remus quick behind him. 

“Get out Pete. Get your clothes.” He hissed, scrambling up the slate. “Run.”

“It smells like blood.” Remus said, entirely unhelpfully, as the four of them grabbed their things, slammed wet feet into shoes and took off for the ridge line, avoiding the dense trees and boulders along the valley floor and instead tracking high and fast to reach the top of the first peak as rapidly as possible. Starkers. James’s invisibility cloak streaming out behind him. 

They beelined for the top of the moraine and ran precipitously down the other side, the chill wind obliterated by their consumptive fear, by the adrenalin coursing through them. At the first large outcropping, Sirius dived down below the half submerged edge of the boulder, pulling Peter and Remus in behind him, James skidding in last. 

They panted a moment while trembling fingers handed out clothes, which were pulled on without things like socks or pants first, those things shoved in pockets just in case they had to bolt again.

“What in the bloody hell was that thing?” James said, glasses shoved back on his sweaty face, the lenses fogging. 

“I never fuckin’ saw it.” Sirius answered, his hat shoved on over tousled wet hair. “For fuck’s sake Remus, I could’ve done without knowing it’d just killed something. I think you might’ve given me a heart attack.” He grabbed his own hands to try to steady them. 

“It what?!” Squeaked Peter, who had an audible wheeze, doubled over with hands on his knees. 

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s just get back to the castle before I freeze my damn bollocks off, on top of everything.” James said, teeth nearly chattering. “Peter, put your pants on mate.” 

“Best birthday ever, indeed.” Grumbled Remus, though he didn’t look nearly as flustered as he could’ve, pulling his sweater back over his button down and thin chest. 

“Yeah, lead us Lupin. Get us home. I’ll never have been so thankful to see my bed.” Sirius checked the sky above and listened for a moment, straining his ears for any hint of that strange sound, the stretch and flutter of great leathery wings. 

It was another hour before they reached the edge of the forest and took their first steps back onto the Hogwarts grounds. 

“Who goes there? Show yourselves!” Came a gruff, panicky voice to the west. 

James groaned softly, “the cloak!”

Ah, fuck! They’d forgotten to secure it back aground themselves in their relief for having made it back to the sloping lawns of Hogwarts. It must’ve been well past two in the morning by then. Gods, they’d landed themselves in a boiling cauldron, alright. 

“Hagrid?” Said Sirius into the night, a hint of hope in his voice, watching a lantern bob toward them from behind the whomping willow. He had always liked the gamekeeper. Maybe he’d be less stern with them. Let them off with a warning? Maybe he wouldn’t even tell Minerva. He crossed his fingers, surreptitiously. 

“Who’s there?” Hagrid huffed, panting as he jogged up to the four of them. His huge frame was obvious in the bright cold of the night. It couldn’t have ever been anyone else. 

“Oh hell, it’s you four.” His voice seemed relieved as he held the light aloft and illuminated the four boys, Remus wringing his hands nervously, Peter looking dutifully ashamed, still a bit wheezy. 

“C’mon then let’s go. To the castle with you. You’re in buckets of trouble, absolute buckets. Minerva’s been at her wits end.” Hagrid looked down at them, rough features full of disappointment, a bit of worry. 

“What in Helga Hufflepuffs’ good graces do you think you were doing?” He paused, turning around to stare at them in their decidedly rumpled clothing. James’s shirt had never managed to get tucked back in. “You know what. Don’t even tell me. Can’t keep a secret anyway.” 

The four of them looked around at each other, shrugged, and followed Hagrid’s giant form back up to the front entryway to the castle. There was nothing to be done for it now, in any case. 

“Never seen Dumbledore in such a state, neither. I mean, I’d been telling him the centaurs were warning me near constantly the planets and whatever were foretelling evil, but he never seemed to pay it any mind.” He rubbed thick hands over his bearded cheek, not breaking his long strides. “Then, tonight? It’s like he’d finally gotten a proper warning of what’s to come. Dark times ahead, I’ll tell you.” 

“The centaurs told you what?” Asked Sirius, jogging a bit to keep up with Hagrid’s march. 

“Ah, pay it no mind. They’re always foretelling doom and whatnot. Obsessed with astrology. Anytime a planet does anything, it’s watch out this and beware that.” Hagrid waved his giant hand holding the lantern vaguely up toward the firmament. “But that’s what planets do, isn’t it? Move. That’s ruddy normal.” 

James had caught up on Hagrid’s other side. “But what kind of things did they say? And what happened tonight to make it all the more relevant?” James was panting a bit as he jogged. Peter had fallen quite far behind, and Remus seemed to be half a mind to ask Hagrid to please slow down, for all their sakes. 

“Old student came by for a cuppa. Didn’t go well, it seems. Never did like that one, Tom.” Hagrid said the name with decided vitriol, then finished his thought under his breath, and neither James nor Sirius seemed to catch what he’d said, though it didn’t sound complimentary.

“In any case,” he continued, “Dumbledore had the teachers search the castle after he’d left. Had them look for anything, you know, out of the ordinary. Seemed to think there was dark magic afoot.” They’d reached the front entrance by then, Hagrid pulling open the massive oaken front doors, the creaking loud in the stillness of the early morning hours. Several torches were still burning along the foot of the great staircase beyond. 

“Well that’s how Minerva knew we were missing the four of ya. Teachers have been up for hours searching the whole castle. I’ve really never seen her this mad before. I’ll be shocked she doesn’t let Filch hang you upside down by your toenails ’til after Christmas.” 

Sirius, James, Peter and Remus had all stopped walking at Hagrid’s mention of Minerva McGonagall’s knowledge of their absence. It was, perhaps, the most sinister, the most terrifying, part of their evening. 

“We could just make a run for Hogsmead. Never come back.” Sirius whispered. 

“Think she’ll expel us?” Peter trembled as he said it.

“Only one way to find out.” And James proved himself to be the bravest of all of them. Remus hadn’t quite remembered how to speak, and Sirius had to pull him along by the sleeve to get him to follow Hagrid up the stairs toward Gryffindor tower. 

______________

“I have NEVER in all of my years, NEVER, been so disgusted. So horrified. So furious at a student, let alone FOUR students.” Professor Minerva McGonagall’s glasses were slipping down her nose, and Sirius didn’t blame them, for the pitch and vibrato of her shouting had caused several decorative plates on shelves to similarly rattle. 

“Could I have been less clear? Could Dumbledore have been less clear? The forbidden forest is strictly forbidden. It’s in the name. It’s in the BLOODY NAME.” She was in a tartan nightgown and her hair was pinned up a bit haphazardly. Sirius thought there were a few more greys than usual. Maybe he was to blame. 

The four boys were cowering in front of her just beyond the portrait of the fat lady, who was doing her best to pretend she couldn’t hear that absolute dressing down they had gotten. 

“What were you even doing? Hunting and killing unicorns? Looking for dragons? Befriending a troll? Prey tell, boys, what could possibly have drawn you out of the castle. At night. In winter. Deep into the forbidden forest?”

“It was my birthday.” Said Sirius, before anyone else could speak. He wasn’t sure why he said it, maybe just to fall on the sword and keep his mates safe. Maybe just because that was a little bit of the truth. He had wanted an adventure for his birthday. And well, they’d had one. 

But, at what cost.

James was staring at him, completely dumbfounded. Peter and Remus had both been crying the last few minutes, Peter wailing and snuffling loudly, Remus doing his best to silently and stealthily wipe tears from his freckled and scarred cheeks. 

“It’s my fault Mi- Professor.” Sirius corrected himself mid blunder, doing his best to look sorry and apologetic, and like he’d never, truly, honestly, never break another rule ever again. 

“Unbelievable.” Professor McGonagall looked so stunned she’d lost the train of her rage and had to reorganise her plan of attack.

“All four of you have detention. Friday and Saturday evenings and Sunday mornings, from now on, until I say you can have them back.” 

Sirius looked up. That wasn’t so bad. Not really. He could take extra detentions. He was quite shocked he wasn’t getting expelled, to be honest. 

“Potter. Black. No quidditch until after the holidays. I will inform Mr. Longbottom tomorrow.” Sirius and James both tensed, and a sickening leadened feeling sat low and horrible in his gut. 

“Mr. Lupin,” She said, turning to Remus, who’s cheeks were red and eyes puffy. “I’m extremely disappointed in you.” 

For a moment, she just looked at Peter, who cried harder than ever. 

“Go to bed. Never let me catch you anywhere near the forest or out of bed after hours again, or you will all be expelled.” She watched them all climb through the portrait, Peter still sniffling heartily, James looking tired and worn. Remus seemed to have lost all of the benefits of Osler’s fire, back to stooped and cowed and baseline uncomfortable. 

They clambered through the portrait hole, one after the other, Sirius the last one to drop down into a quiet common room with the slowly dying embers of what must have once been a roaring fire. Peter and Remus had already made their way up the stairs to the boys dormitory, but James had frozen, not far from the portrait hole, his gaze fixed toward the sofa before the fire. 

“It was awful, Marls. I can’t shake the feeling like something bad happened tonight.” It was Lily, her voice thick from crying. “But, nothing actually happened. He just… looked at me and … smirked, you know.” 

Marlene and Lily were sitting together, Marlene stroking Lily’s hair and shushing her. “I know Lils, I know. He sounds so creepy. But, hopefully you’ll never have to see him again. Dumbledore told him to leave and that’s that. We’re safe here.” 

Sirius raised an eyebrow, making quick and curious eye contact with James, who had a dark look cross his face. 

“Who smirked at you?” James’s voice was clear and the relative shaming they’d just gotten from Minerva completely shaken off in light of this new conundrum. 

Lily turned and looked over the arm of the sofa. “Oh, it’s you.” She turned back to Marlene, who was looking at James and Sirius with narrowed eyes. “No one. Nevermind.” 

“If someone’s being creepy to you, we can do something about it. We can tell him off.” James took a few steps forward. 

“Tell him off? Voldemort? Wow James a bit big for your britches, don’t you think? I know you’re a star in transfiguration, but really now.” Lily seemed to enjoy the familiar distraction of harping on James, and her voice found a bit of a laugh. 

“He was here?” Sirius said, his voice tight and uncomfortable. It was his turn to stumble forward, and his skin was suddenly hot and uncomfortable. He’d heard the name before. At Ishtar. He’d heard the stories. The rumours. He’d seen the way Rudolphus and Rabastan had pressed their teeth together in hopeful, hungry admiration of his ways. 

Luckily, Lily interrupted his memories. 

“Yeah. Came to see Dumbledore. I nearly ran into him coming around the corridor from the dungeons on my way back upstairs. All the Slytherins were saying- I mean, some of them, their parents were with him in Hogsmead tonight.” Her voice got quiet. “They were making jokes about it.” 

James spat on the floor. “Bastards.” 

Lily and Marlene both looked up at him, shock evident on both of their faces. Sirius tried hard not to think of the blank faces of the muggle gala and the way the imperius curse lay about the place, comfortable and at home, like everyday cutlery. 

“There’s no room for his stupid bigotry. All of it’s hogwash. The people who follow him are nothing but feral pigs.” 

James bit out the words, sharp and careless on the end of his breaths. Sirius rarely ever saw him so angry. Nor had he ever spoken so vehemently against those with the anti-muggle sentiment that had been growing so fashionable in the wizarding world these days. 

“My dad says we should try the lot of them for hate crimes. Muggle borns deserve a place in the wizarding world just the same as anyone else. Just the same as squibs and half bloods and purebloods alike. Anything less is nonsense.”

James had puffed up his chest quite a bit, and Lily and Marlene were both staring at him, Lily with an odd sort of expression in her eyes. “Yes, well,” she finally said, “he gets plenty of support among my slithery friends' parents. Rosier couldn’t shut up about it.” 

“How can you be friends with them Lily? They don’t believe you deserve magic. Deserve to call yourself a witch. I’ll never understand how you tolerate them.” 

“He’s got a point, Lils.” Marlene sighed, exasperated, tucking her friend’s long red hair behind her ear. 

“They’re not all like that, Marlene. And they’re just young. Idiots parroting what their parents say.” Lily brushed her off. “When they get to know me, they’re impressed that I’m just as good at magic as they are. I’m changing their minds.” She was defiant, but even Lily seemed to find her own argument weak. 

“It takes a lot to stand up to what your parents believe.” Sirius said quietly. He wasn’t looking at any of the others, instead he found himself staring into the last coals of the fire. 

“Let’s go to bed.” James broke the silence, the first to turn and head upstairs. He looked over to Sirius, disappointment clear on his face, so Sirius followed him, eyes down and quiet. 


	12. They Stumble That Run Fast

_ November 23, 1973 _

Despite the bite of a chill draft winding between the eaves and under window jams in the darkened hall, sweat dripped down Remus’s face. It fell from his brown and down his nose, then followed the line of the raised and puckered scar that travelled indiscreetly from beneath his eye to the bottom of his ear, making quadrants of his face. The droplet, equally moved by the aforementioned unmentionable and the universal constant of gravity, tickled madly, but Remus resisted wiping it away, not wanting to rub gritty hands on his so brutally marred, yet still so sensitive skin. 

He was bent double on his hands and knees, in a corner of a rarely tread seventh floor corridor, scrubbing the stone joints of the floor. His fingers were pruned and raw and the knees of his faded trousers were soaked with soapy water. His kneecaps hurt in such a torturous way that Remus often found himself wishing for the bearing and constitution of the wolf, four legged and well proportioned for a job such as this, for which his human skeleton found so untenable. 

McGonagall sat, as had become custom on their weekend detentions, at the far end of the hall in a stiff backed chair behind a small, impromptu wooden desk she had transfigured, stacked high with parchment. 

“Don’t forget to clean the ankle hinge on that suit of armour, Mister Pettigrew,” her sharp eyes never left the NEWT transfiguration papers before her, and yet, it seemed she could sense when one of them was flagging and needed a reminder that she was, indeed, watching. 

“Yes, Professor,” Peter offered in a defeated tone, sniffling hard. 

Remus didn’t dare look away from his task at hand, not wanting to draw the wrath of their head of house with her straight back and narrowed eyes, but he did sit back on his ankles a moment, giving his poor kneecaps a rest, and shook his head, shaggy lengths of brown hair flipping the irritating beads of sweat this way and that, likely across the floor he had just finished scrubbing. It felt good to shake things free. Somewhere, deep within, the wolf agreed. Somewhere, in the background, he heard Professor McGonagall shift slightly in her chair, the scratching of her quill paused. 

Remus quickly returned to scrubbing. Kneecaps be damned. 

It had been three weeks since their adventure into the forest, and three weekends of gruelling, tedious detentions. Even Sirius and James had been unnaturally quiet and subdued, horrified that they hadn’t been allowed to participate in Quidditch practise, terrified they’d be booted from the team for their transgressions. Well, Remus wasn’t sure if Sirius had ever felt terror about anything in his life, but if he ever had, he was sure it would be about missing Quidditch. 

He could hear Sirius grunting with effort as he tried to reach the far corners of a deep alcove cover in cobwebs with an old ostrich feather duster, which somehow suited him so aptly that he was the only of the four of them that didn’t look completely clownish and impossibly ridiculous waving it about, clearing away spiderwebs and centuries of leftovers from stale air. 

James, probably the hardest working of the four, tireless in his war against the dirt, was similarly engrossed in beating the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy with an old broom, clouds of dust erupting around his face, his artfully windswept hair looking slightly deranged and his glasses skew and steamed. It wasn’t quite clear who was winning. Perhaps James, but only just. 

Today, Friday, meant they were cleaning an entire corridor by hand, starting after dinner and continuing on into the evening, and then the night until the job was done. It was different from Saturdays, when they would help the houselves do laundry (where James waged similar battles with his new arch enemies, stains and, most charmingly, holes in socks, which he darned himself, muttering away with needle and threads in hand), and Sunday mornings, when they would tend the grounds with Hagrid (which Remus secretly enjoyed most of all). But, no matter the task, McGonagall sat sentry at her little transfigured desk with pursed lips and shrewd eyes that peered from just above the lenses of spectacles that sat very low and serious on her nose.

Perhaps, Remus did acquiesce, in a moment of resigned and only slightly amused reflection, her dedication to their supervision was less a testament to Professor McGonagall’s severity and more a condemning indication of the absolute inability of the four of them to not get into pots and kettles of trouble when left to their own nefarious devices, no matter that they were now subdued and adult and responsible in the way that they behaved. 

It was in their very first Friday of detentions that Filch had wandered away from his supervision duties and Sirius had brought down an entire shelf in the trophy room. 

He had been trying to read the reasons why a long distant Snape had earned their place on a top shelf some fifteen years previous, spotted as he swept from shelf to shelf with the ostrich feather duster, which he stretched to seemingly improbable heights. Driven by his audacity at seeing Snape’s name so gilded, he climbed the shelves to reach it, James giving him a boost, temporarily distracted from his current siege on floor grime. 

Halfway up and in a moment that’s gracelessness could have only been James’s fault, Sirius managed to elbow down a gold cup given to a Myrtle Edgemead for services to the school back in 1941, denting it as it clattered across the floor to where Remus stood, a tin of polish and a rag held uselessly in his hand. 

An ominous creak was followed by an echoing cascade of tumbling, crashing keepsakes, and the curses of James and Sirius, who had disassembled themselves and disappeared both the ostrich feather duster and Myrtle Edgemead’s damaged cup. 

Peter had emerged from beneath the pile of memorabilia with a black eye, clutching the memorial plaque of a Wallace Gudgeon in 1638 who had died in a centaur stampede during the last Triwizard tournament. Filch's dire threats could be heard from several rooms away and, from then on, McGonagall hadn’t let them out of her sight. 

Back in the present, Remus was driving the stiff bristle brush methodically into the crevices of the floor, loosening probably years worth of debris, trying to resist compulsively rubbing his face of the sweat and grime, ignoring the searing pain in his patellas, positively daydreaming of another night time dip in Osler’s Fire, when a blur of light came streaking around the corner. 

Remus sat back on his heels for a second time, looking at the swirl of silver light that came to a stop before McGonagall’s desk with wonderment. He had never seen anything so ethereal. He started, dropping his bristle brush with an ungainly clatter when the glowing seahorse spoke in the voice of Professor Flitwick. 

“Minerva, I need assistance in my common room, the seventh year girls thought it was a good idea to brew  _ Felix Felicis _ in the  _ loo _ but were too lazy to properly source occamy eggshells and decided to smelt down silver  _ jewellery _ instead—”

The voice hadn’t finished speaking, but Professor McGonagall was rising from her desk looking wholly exasperated. She vanished her work back to her office with a flick of the wrist and strode forward through the swirling and undulating seahorse. It dissipated around her only to reform in her wake, bobbing along in irritation. 

“ _ never _ in my  _ life _ —” the voice continued “Slughorn and Poppy are on their way but it looks like Elletra and Bulstrode will need to be moved to St. Mungo’s— it’s an absolute  _ disaster _ —”

As she reached the end of the hall she stopped suddenly and turned, her deep green robes swirling about her trademark black booted feet, to see four sets of curious eyes on her. 

“I will be back shortly.” She said, looking directly at Sirius. “If  _ anyone _ steps out of line—” she paused for emphasis. “Just  _ don’t _ .”

And that was certainly all the warning Remus needed, really. She disappeared around the corner, the glowing seahorse vaporising into the darkness of the unlit hall beyond. 

When they could no longer hear the click of shoes on stone, Sirius slunk down onto the floor with a sigh of relief and exhaustion, propping his hands behind his head, clearly free from the fear of reprimand that gripped Remus. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, Black.” James reproached. “It’s going to take us all bloody night to do this corridor, it’s filthy,” he griped, resuming his beating of the tapestry. 

“Oi, relax, James, we can take a break for a minute. We’ve been working like houselves for three weeks.”

Peter seemed to agree with Sirius and he too slid back against the wall, his shirt damp with sweat. Remus and James shared a look of disapproval before turning back to their tasks, Remus picking up the stiff bristle brush and resuming his scrubbing. 

Sirius grunted in amusement. “Mates, you forget,” he said, standing, wand aloft, “we have magic and no supervision, we’ll have this all cleaned in a trice!”

“Sirius—  _ don’t _ . She’ll know— we’re not supposed to—” Remus begged. 

“I’m with Sirius, let’s just magic this clean. We can pretend to be working when we hear her coming.” Offered Peter. 

“Don’t encourage him.” Remus groused as he moved his bucket forward and began to scrub the next tile, shooting a sideways glance at Peter . 

“I don’t see why we can’t—” James wondered aloud and Remus groaned. 

Sirius smiled ever wider, knowing he had won. 

They had the whole hall cleaned in three minutes flat. James knew a startlingly wide array of cleaning spells, and Sirius had most of them mastered within seconds of practice. Remus decided cleaning by magic was incredibly destabilising. One flick of the wrist and the hall was cleaner in seconds than it had been after hours of deep scrubbing. 

What felt like hours later, Remus was pacing the corridor. 

He was unable to relax while Sirius was trying to prove some point or another about Shakespeare. Sirius was reciting his favourite moment from  _ Romeo and Juliet _ as he dragged James and Peter to stand in as characters, both of whom were laughing too hard to be much of any use. 

“No, James, hold still, you’re supposed to be dead—” he reprimanded as James lay like a limp sake of potatoes, being dragged into position by his left foot.

“Isn’t this supposed to be a tragedy?” Remus huffed, watching Sirius struggle to move James’s limp form while Peter pelted bits of paper at them.

“It’s not tragic, it’s hilariously self deprecating. Now, come over here and be the Friar.” Sirius demanded as he hoisted James across his lap. “Peter, over here, you’re supposed to be the watchman!”

“I’m not participating,” Remus stated, turning on his heel to make another pass.

“Wait, who am I?” James asked, lifting his head from his awkward position in Sirius’s lap. He looked like a particularly oversized rag doll.

“You’re Romeo,” Remus answered, earning an impressed raised eyebrow from Sirius, “you just poisoned yourself after killing Sirius’s fiancé.” 

“Blimey, this is dark.” James laughed, laying back down and lolling his tongue out of his mouth for dramatic effect. 

“Yes, now, shut up, you’re dead,” Sirius demanded. “Remus, you sly dog, I never knew you to be a theatre man.” Sirius teased with a roguish wink and Remus gave him a shy and crooked grin that pulled the scars under his eye. 

“Come go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay.” Remus retorted in a rather good impression of a worried old man, thinking resignedly, that it was kind of who he was on the inside, anyways.

“Not yet, Remus! Dear Merlin, you people are impossible! James hold still!” Sirius cleared his throat dramatically.

Peter scuttled forward red-faced and cackling, “Why do you two know Shakespeare, just so?” 

“Peter, it baffles me beyond comprehension how two purebloods such as you and James managed to escape Shakespeare in your formal learning. Even Remus seems to know the classics.” Sirius said with his flair and gesticulation. “Now, remember your line?  _ Lead, boy, which way? _ James,  _ hold still _ !”

Peter was laughing too hard to answer, but Sirius took that as an affirmative. Remus shook his head, walking still, his fingers picking the cuff of his jumper.

Sirius cleared his throat obnoxiously before adopting the persona of a lovelorn teenage girl with startling acuity. 

“Go get thee hence, for I will not away. What’s here? A cup clos’d in my true love’s hand?” James’s limp form was shaking with suppressed mirth as Sirius clutched his hand. “Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. O churl, drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after? I will kiss thy lips—”

“Kiss who?!” James demanded, shooting up suddenly, headbutting Sirius, who was indeed bending down to kiss him. 

“I have to kiss you to see if it’ll kill me!” He retorted, rubbing this forehead with a grimace. “Get back here! You’re ruining my scene!” He yelled petulantly, dragging James by the ankles across the stone tiles. 

Remus watched in amused exasperation as Sirius simultaneously tried to haltingly recite the rest of the passage and prevent the supposed-to-be-dead-James from trying to shimmy away across the slippery stone floor, skin squeaking loudly with the friction of it. 

“Haply— some— poison— yet doth—” Sirius stuttered, as he grabbed the hem of James’s trousers, dragging him back, and they devolved into a wrestling match. James swung his leg around to knock Sirius down and tried to sit on his head. “You’re taking too much creative freedom, Potter! Stop upstaging me! Go back to being dead!”

“I’m invincible! It’s my moment to shine!” James shouted, putting Sirius in a headlock. 

Peter lost all control of his limbs, giggling wildly, flopping down like a flobber worm.

“Peter! Line!” Sirius yelled, to which Peter wheezed out a breathless laugh, unable to remember what he was supposed to say. 

“You’re all useless!” Sirius griped. “Unfit for the stage, the lot of you!”

Remus shook his head and continued to pace up and down the corridor as Sirius grabbed Peter’s foot from the ground and yanked him into the furious wrestling match. 

His mind began to wander as he examined cracks in the floor, his thumb finding its way to the scar below his chin, his ear still straining for the sounds of a returning teacher. 

Hope, in her fluffy pink house robes and burgundy lipstick, floated across Remus’s mind, as she often did, startlingly, at moments when he was least prepared to deal with the memories. Of how kind and beautiful she was. He thought of her gramophone and the neat and tidy collection of mostly second hand records. 

A sad smile overtook his face as he realised how much less it hurt to think about her, now, nearly a year later. How it almost brought him a bit of bittersweet joy to imagine her in the kitchen with a cigarette dangling from her mouth and a mop in her hands as she danced to The Beatles. He wished desperately in the moment that he could hear his mum’s music again, all of it, any of it, feel the vinyl beneath his fingers, dance like no one was watching. It was she who had first read Shakespeare with him, after all. 

He was so lost in thought, wishing for a gramophone and some old records, in fact, he didn’t notice when his friends had fallen suddenly silent. He was picking the scar under his chin, quietly humming Yellow Submarine, when he noticed them all staring at him. 

He stopped abruptly, turning to face them, listening for the sound of footsteps in the eerie silence. 

“What?” He squeaked. “What is it? Is there a spider on me?!” He felt his hair frantically. 

“Where did  _ that _ come from?” James asked in amazement. 

Sirius stood and pushed past Remus who turned to see an imposing and ornate door set into the dark grey wall that certainly hadn’t been there a moment before, all thoughts of spiders gone. 

“Whoa,” Remus offered. The newly materialised entry was immense, reaching up to the high vaulted ceiling of the corridor, and it seemed to shimmer with magic. He could feel it reaching out to him, safe and inviting. It filled him with the same sense of wonder that he felt the first time he laid eyes on Hogwarts, but he couldn’t explain why. 

“What do you think is in there?” Peter whispered. 

“Only one way to find out—” Sirius said softly, reaching for the wrought iron handle. 

“Are you  _ mad _ ?” James’s harsh incredulity broke the tension as he slapped Sirius’s hand away, the pitch of his voice rising with each syllable. “We’ve been in detention for three weeks, and will be for,  _ Merlin _ knows how long, and you want to open a mysteriously appearing magical door during said detention?”

“Uh— yeah, that’s exactly what I want to do, Potter,” Sirius agreed, “move aside.”

“Yeah, alright,” James capitulated, eyes distracted by the shimmering magic that seemed to call to them.

“That’s it? That’s your whole argument?” Peter asked, his eyes never leaving the door, his mouth slightly ajar. 

James shrugged, gingerly placing his hand on the carved wood. “Friar, what do you think? You’re the voice of reason here.”

Possessed with some previously unknown sense of reckless abandon, Remus bumped shoulders with Sirius. “As you like it.”

Sirius cracked a wickedly mischievous grin. 

The immense doors opened with a tinkling creak, easier than he had anticipated for their size. A soft and familiar melody escaped past the great threshold, sending Remus’s heart racing with anticipation. The room was large, they saw, bigger than he thought possible for this wing of the castle. It was towering tall with giant stained glass windows and high sweeping arches. The walls were covered in stacks of shelves and the floor adorned with scattered plush rugs.

Remus couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears as the four of them crowded into the entrance to take in the oddness and magnitude of the room. 

Sirius broke the silence with a befuddled voice. 

“What in Merlin’s pants is a sub-mare-een?”

He had just opened his mouth to answer, a laugh bubbling in his throat, his heart lighter than air, left foot stepping past the threshold into the incredible room of gifts from the universe, when the wolf picked up the faint sound of hard soles on stone tiles. 

“McGonagall is coming!” He whispered in a panicked rush. Sirius groaned a desperate yearning sound under his breath, reluctantly allowing himself to be steered away from the allure of such mystery by James and Peter.

“We’ll come back,” James promised. 

They all scurried frantically away to their respective corners, busying themselves with their muggle cleaning. Remus looked back just in time to see the door slowly close itself and melt softly away into the smooth wall. He cursed under his breath at the cruelness of poor timing. 

Just as McGonagall appeared around the corner with shrewd eyes and a tired expression, Remus resolved to find a way back into the hidden room filled with shelves upon shelves of records, so many he couldn’t begin to imagine how many songs he’d never heard. He had to get back to the dizzying array of gramophones of every size and shape imaginable, the tables covered in every kind of headphone Remus could ever think to want, and the balm of such familiar music.

____________

Grey morning light shone through the dull clouds of the enchanted ceiling the following morning as the four boys slumped their tired bodies down onto the hard bench of the Gryffindor table. Remus poured himself a cup of coffee, drooping eyes watching the open windows for the morning owls as Sirius continued his tired litany in a seemingly futile attempt to rally James into further rule breaking. 

“C’mon James, you can’t tell me you’re not curious,” Sirius demanded, askance, leaning low over the Gryffindor table, bright eyes with dark circles from their late nights of cleaning. 

“Of course I am! I just don’t fancy getting permanently booted from the Quidditch team or  _ expelled _ !” He whispered back, dishing himself a fruit salad and yogurt.

Sirius groaned like a dying whale and flopped sideways into Peter who wobbled, pouring milk into his porridge and nearly spilled it all over the table. “Watch it, Sirius! James is right, McGonagall might actually let Filch flay us if we’re caught out of bed again.” 

“Remus?” Sirius asked, lifting his head, looking mischievous and hopeful. 

The first few delivery owls swooped into the immense hall, diving and dipping, dropping parcels or crash landing into cereal bowls, and Remus sat up straighter, waiting. The metal of his five measly knuts sat warm in his sweaty palm as he surreptitiously counted them over and over again. 

“I’m keen to go find it.” He finally said as a quick little barn owl landed gracefully on the bench beside him. 

“What is  _ happening _ ?” James demanded, a speared sausage in his hands. “Have we body swapped or something?” 

Remus grinned and shrugged, paying the owl for its troubles and quickly unfurling the large pages of moving script and looping images.

“But we don’t know what made the door appear,” Peter said. “maybe it likes Shakespeare—”

“I don’t think it was the Shakespeare,” Remus snorted before his eyes found the headline. 

_ Missing Muggleborns: Maleficence or Misinformation? _

“How do you know?” Sirius asked, nearly offended. “My Juliet is practically magic all on its own—”

“Shut up, Sirius, you plonker, look at this—” and they all huddle in around Remus’s shoulders. 

_ Public outcry has spurred DMLE to investigate the so-called disappearance of at least seven muggleborn witches and wizards over the last year. Head Auror, Rudolf Quinn, ensures that, “the DMLE takes its job of protecting all magical people very seriously, and if these people really were missing, why is it only coming to our attention now? Perhaps they’re on vacation, or eloped in the muggle world, honestly, what do you expect us to do about muggleborns wishing to remain with muggles?” _

_ Conversely, friends of the supposedly missing muggleborns insist that their disappearances happened under mysterious circumstances related to their advocacy work at the Ministry and in certain elite social circles.  _

_ One such witch, who wishes to remain anonymous, is vociferous in her claim that those participating in Pureblood rights campaigns are to blame. This reporter is uncertain if such brash statements bear much weight—  _

“Doesn’t bear much weight?” James nearly shouted, causing several first years to flinch and a passing Professor Flitwick to jump and utter an admonished, “Goodness me, really now—”

“Sorry professor!” Peter whisper-yelled, apologetically. 

James’s eyes flicked down the table as if unconsciously pulled there, down to where Lily sat with Marlene and Brenda Johnson, heads bent low over their own copy of the  _ Daily Prophet _ . 

“This is unbelievable,” James muttered, running his fingers through his hair, making it look a little mad and frayed. “How can the DMLE not take this seriously? Eloped in the muggle world? What rubbish.”

Sirius was unusually quiet as he buttered a croissant, eyes downcast and face blank. 

“My mum’s friend, Mindy, was muggleborn and she’s been missing since July.” Peter offered meekly. “Her family reported it to muggle police as soon as they knew she was missing, but no one reported it to the ministry until a few weeks ago. Just how it goes when you don’t have magical family.” Peter’s voice was sad and his shoulders drooped a bit. 

“Sorry, mate,” Remus said, folding the paper and setting it down. 

“And, then?” James pushed. “When it was reported, what happened?”

Peter shrugged. “Nothing. Said she was probably out somewhere in the muggle world. But mum said there was no way. Mindy was close to her family, had a witch fiancé and everything. Mum was dormmates with Mindy in their Hogwarts days and always helped organise her fundraiser parties for muggleborn representation in the ministry.”

“I think my dad’s been to some of those,” James said, with a furrowed brow. 

“That song that was playing— in the room” Peter interrupted, “It was muggle, wasn’t it? I’d never heard it before.”

“No one has yet to explain to me what a  _ sub-mare-een _ actually is—” Sirius gesticulated, spilling coffee down his front with a defeated sigh.

“I was humming it.” Remus piped up, as James leaned over the table to try and help Sirius clean the coffee off his robes. “I was thinking about my mum and her record collection and her gramophone and wishing I could listen to her music again, and then suddenly there was a huge room full of all the things I wanted.”

James had sat back down, clutching a messed serviette, Peter had a sad and sympathetic look on his face, but Sirius looked calculating. “We have to go back and try.”

And just like that the looming threats of an adult world, of missing muggleborns and magical politics, so far away from the walls of the castle, were brushed aside, and, for the moment, forgotten.

______________

Two weeks later, they were at a loss. They had spent every free period and break in the seventh floor corridor either reenacting the final scene to  _ Romeo and Juliet _ or singing Yellow Submarine to the wall, in varying degrees of intensity and dramatics, trying to will the room full of gramophones back into existence. 

Some more memorable moments included Sirius kicking the wall, causing him to limp awkwardly for three days, all the while refusing to see Madam Pomfrey for what James was sure was a broken toe. Or when Peter yelled at it for several long minutes to reveal its secrets to him, heralding the arrival of an incredibly suspicious and cantankerous Filch. Or when James tried a few spells that Remus was sure would get them expelled if anyone caught them, resulting in nothing but some scorch marks on the smooth stone wall. 

Or when Remus finally explained to the three of them what a submarine was and they all refused to accept that he was telling the truth and left, staggering with laughter at Remus’s sense of imagination. 

“We must be missing something.” James had said for the thousandth time that night as they all crawled into bed.

“We’ll figure it out, mark my words, Potter,” Sirius assured in a tone you couldn’t help but believe. 

_____________

_ December 9, 1973 _

The night was bitterly cold and the grounds were deathly silent in the light of a nearly full moon. Remus sat on the frigid ledge of the window, staring out at the snow covered grounds, the forest beyond casting blue black shadows in the ethereal moonlight. The windowpane was shrouded in frost and the cold stone beneath him leeched the warmth from his body, but this close to the transformation, he felt hot and sweaty under his thin pyjama bottoms, fevered almost. His bones ached and his skin prickled and shivered, but he welcomed the cold bite of the night that peppered goosebumps across his arms. 

He heard a rustle of blankets, then light feet on hard stone. 

“Aren’t you freezing?” came a soft voice, hushed in the quiet of the night, so close Remus could feel warm breath on his ear. It smelled like mint tea and lemon. 

He shook his head. “The wolf is warm,” Remus said, unthinking. 

“Does the wolf fancy a walk?” Sirius asked, rubbing his hands together for warmth. 

He gave Sirius a doubtful expression. 

“C’mon, we’ve been  _ so _ good, she won’t know.” He cajoled, shaking his shoulders a bit. 

“Don’t you rather want to ask James?” He offered. They hadn’t snuck out alone together since the previous year and he was feeling a bit awkward about the prospects. 

“I have an idea about the magic room.” Sirius offered cryptically, foggy breath rising in puffs before his pale face as he looked at the moon. 

“Oh?”

“Get dressed.” And, he turned to rustle through James’s trunk to find the cloak. 

They made it back to the seventh floor corridor without incident, tucked in close together under the thin, silky cloak, muffling charms on their shoes quieting their passage. The castle was cold and bright, reflective light casting long dark shadows. 

Standing before the wall, Sirius pulled off the cloak and pulled Remus in front of him, holding on to his shoulders. 

“Okay, Lupin,” he began, in a soft but determined voice, “tell me again,  _ what  _ exactly were you thinking before the door appeared?”

Remus’s thumb found his chin and Sirius batted it away. “I was thinking about my mum, and how much I wished I could hear her music again. I was wishing I could dance with her and—” he faltered, his throat feeling a bit tight. The moon was much too close to be thinking about such sad things. 

Sirius squeezed his shoulders before moving away. “Good, that’s good,” he said, walking up and down the hall, pacing as Remus had done. 

“What are you doing?” he asked. 

“Pacing, like you did that night. I think you’re right, it wasn’t the Shakespeare. I think it was  _ you _ .”

“Me?”

“Yeah, think about it. You think of your mom, and the castle just gave you everything you could want to feel close to her, just short of bringing her back to life? Come pace with me.”

Remus moved to walk with Sirius. They walked all the way down to the far end of the hall before turning on their heel and going back. 

“Think of what you thought before.” Sirius prompted. “Or say it out loud.” 

Remus sighed, now feeling a bit observed, but suddenly touched that Sirius hadn’t asked him to do this when all four of them were there. “When did you have this idea?” 

“From the first time we came back, but I didn’t want to make things uncomfortable for you,” Sirius said a bit shyly, hands pushed deep in his pockets, his stride long and determined.

Emboldened by the unexpected thoughtfulness, Remus closed his eyes and imagined clearly, his mum’s gramophone and record collection. Thought of his living room at home, and his mum’s spinning wheel. He thought of her crystal ashtray and the beige corded phone. He thought of all of the songs he’d play for Sirius and how much his mum would have loved to meet the kind and strange boy beside him. 

Together they walked, back and forth, back and forth, Remus imagining records and gramophones, the magic room and his living room in equal measure, but nothing seemed to happen.

Back and forth, and back and forth again, and Remus was feeling a deep longing sadness for any single note of music, “Merlin, I wish I could have seen that room properly.” 

“Keep talking,” Sirius encouraged. 

“I just want it to come back.” Remus groaned. 

“What do you want to come back?” 

“The room!” Remus nearly yelled. “I want the room with the records and the shelves and the things! Where the bloody hell did it go?”

Sirius kept asking him questions and Remus kept answering and rephrasing what it was he wanted, when suddenly, on their umpteenth pass of the wall, it finally happened. 

Remus was giving a bullet pointed list of all of the songs he wanted to play for Sirius when the door’s sudden appearance startled him into shocked silence. 

“You did it!” Sirius exclaimed, gripping Remus’s arm and jumping up and down like a loon. 

“I did it?” He asked stupidly. 

“Yes, you dolt!” They ran forward and Remus placed a timid hand on the door as James had done the first time it had appeared. The wood was warm and the grain smooth under his hand. The carvings in the door were precise and geometric. Now that he had a moment to study them, it reminded him of a Moorish mosaic, similar to the design his grandmother had in her kitchen. 

Impatient as ever, Sirius couldn’t wait any longer and he pulled the heavy doors open. They stepped hurriedly beyond the threshold, eager to explore, but stopped suddenly. 

The room was different from before. It was smaller, less grand and imposing. Cosy, even. It struck Remus suddenly, oddly, how similar it was to his living room at home, but not quite the same either. 

There were two soft green sofas before a low oak coffee table, the varnish whole and untarnished. Beside it sat his mum’s large and impressive gramophone with a teetering stack of her well loved records. 

The rest of the room was empty save for a spinning wheel, a corded beige phone sitting neatly out of place on the ground beside it, a plush grey carpet beneath the table and couches, and what looked to be a set of school robes draped over the arm of one of the sofas. 

Remus approached the gramophone cautiously, his fingers grazing the spinning wheel as he went. 

“What  _ is _ this?” Sirius asked with profound confusion in his voice as he crouched over the telephone on the floor, poking it with his wand.

“It’s a telephone. It’s one of the ways muggles communicate. My mum used to call my gran and her friend with it all the time.” 

“Why not use owls?” 

“Telephones are like talking over a floo, but without the ash,” Remus explained, lifting a stack of the familiar records into his hands and resisting the urge to smell the worn card stock sleeves. 

Sirius had wandered over to the couch. “Why is it different?” He asked. 

“I don’t know. But, it seemed to give us very specific things.” He said. 

There was an odd silence that followed, and Remus looked up to see Sirius holding the rogue student robes aloft. 

“Sirius?”

He made an odd constrained sort of voice before turning back to Remus. “I think it gives us what we want.” His eyes were wide and sad and hopeful all at the same time, clutching the little set of robes, far too small for him. 

“What?”

“While we were walking, I was thinking about how much I wished Regulus had been sorted to Hufflepuff.” He lifted the robes up to show a first-year Hufflepuff tie, draped on the shoulder and a little badger badge affixed to the lapel. 

“Do you think we can ask it for other stuff?” Remus whispered, almost as if he didn’t want the room to hear him speaking about it. 

“I don’t know, ask it for something,” Sirius whispered back. 

“Uh—” He mumbled awkwardly, then thought clearly and specifically about what it was he wanted, something he wanted to share with Sirius. The scratching of the needle on the gramophone dropping onto a record startled both of them and the opening notes of familiar cords made Remus’s heart race and his face split into a smile so radiant, even the scars taut on his face didn’t bother him. 

Sirius had a similarly stunned visage, staring at Lupin as the song picked up. “What is this?”

“Muggle music, mate,” Remus smiled and imitated a guitar solo to the catchy rift of House of the Rising sun flowing out into the room.

Sirius barked a shocked and jubilant laugh, his face, bright and joyful. Childlike astonishment adorned his features making him look younger and softer than Remus had ever known him to be as he stared at the gramophone.

“This is magic,” he muttered in disbelief, “pure fucking magic, Lupin. Play some more.”

And, so, Remus did. They listened to American Blues and British rock, country and punk. Anything that Remus could think of. And Sirius couldn’t believe that Remus knew so many songs and could sing all the words. 

Sirius loved The Beatles but did not appreciate Elvis Presley. He couldn’t get over Ray Charles’s moving voice and then refused to believe anyone listened to The Beach Boys willingly, and it was beautiful to see, Sirius, free from his sombre worries and worrisome misdeeds, for just a moment. 

The scars on Remus’s face pulled tight but not uncomfortably, his smile unrelenting, as Sirius in his silk black robes and cascading hair tapped his monogrammed slippers against the plush rug beneath their feet and shook his hips in a way Remus would never dare. And, Remus, was struck with a thought, a fleeting feeling, a realisation that Sirius made him—  _ happy _ . In a way that felt like sunshine. In a way that James and Peter didn’t, or couldn’t. And the thought confused and warmed him. 

As the night wore on, slippers were discarded and robes scattered. The room had supplied a roaring fire and the lights had long since dropped to a warm glow. Sirius and Remus lay on the plush rug, long sleeves pushed above elbows, records strewn about them. 

At one point a dark bottle with a white label appeared beside an intricately carved silver cigarette holder. Sirius had jumped up with a gleeful shout, yelling his praises to the room. 

“What is that?” Remus quirked a brow as Sirius twisted the metal cap off the bottle, releasing the bitter sweet smell of liquorice and dry pungency of what could only be strong liquor. 

“Swill of the common man, my dear Remus.” Sirius said with airs and a flourish as he unceremoniously tasted the mysterious beverage and grimaced. “ugh, tastes like it, too.” 

Remus snorted at the decidedly french and fancy label wondering what bar Sirius judged such common and pedestrian things, as it looked far more expensive than the brandy his dad drank.

He offered the bottle to Remus who hesitated, recoiling slightly.

“I don’t— like it.” He finally said as Sirius retrieved the cigarette case and pulled out a long, thin brown stick that smelled floral acrid all at once. 

“But you haven’t even tried it.” Sirius dismissed as he lit the cigarette, letting the smoke fill his mouth and pour out around his face like a little dragon. 

“I mean I don’t like the feeling.” He corrected, hunching over himself to pick at a hole in his sock. Sirius surveyed him carefully through the sweet smelling smoke, head turned slightly to the side before shrugging and capping the bottle. And no more was said about it. 

“How about this, then?” Sirius offered the black cigarette, the smell of cloves strong now, the dark paper slightly crinkled. Remus put the paper to his lips, unfamiliar and unsure, and dragged the warm, thick air into his lungs. It tasted bitter and sweet and somehow horrible and enjoyable all at once and it burned terribly in his chest. Remus promptly fell forward coughing, the smoke falling from him without the grace Sirius had demonstrated.

Sirius laughed and thumped him on the back with a smile, his hair falling around his shoulders. “You’ll get used to it.”

Remus continued to cough, his eyes watering and his limbs buzzing uncomfortably, the wolf restless and concerned, and he shook his head. “No fuckin’ thanks, mate.” 

Sirius’s bark of laughter echoed around the room and they lay there late into the night as they listened to music and tried to bewitch the heavy, floral smoke into tiny creatures. 

As the hours flew past, Remus had begun to divine a bit of a theme in Sirius’s tastes and reached a scarred hand up to the gramophone to set the record player to an old favourite. When the needle dropped, he watched in delight as Sirius was frozen in abject shock at the way Jimi Hendrix could play an electric guitar. 

“I didn’t know music could be like this,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time that night, lighting another cigarette, moving in time to All Along the Watchtower, looking like he had transcended to a different plane of existence in swirling smoke. “They were wrong. Muggles can do magic.”

They realised after an hour of begging the room for snacks, that perhaps, the room couldn’t cater to this particular desire. Pulling on their slippers and jumpers, they decided it was time for a trip to the kitchens before heading off to bed. 

They giggled as they closed the giant carved door behind them and Remus threw the cloak over their shoulders. The hall was much colder than the warmth of the room, and Remus pulled the drawstrings of his hood tightly around his face. 

The moon had long since set and the halls were plunged into velvety, ominous darkness as they slipped beneath tapestries and into hidden doorways, descending down towards the warm kitchens. 

Stepping into the glow of a dying fire in the cosy kitchen, Sirius threw the cloak off of them and stuffed it into his sweater. 

“James is going to be furious when we tell him we got in without him,” Sirius said with a laugh. 

“Absolutely rabid,” Remus responded. 

“He’s not the only one,” came a sharp voice from the shadows. Shrill and Scottish and, oh, so angry. A tone so aggrieved and displeased that Remus felt like his soul had left his body. 

Sirius was comically frozen like a dog caught in the rubbish bin and Remus was similarly afraid of moving, terrified of what would come next. There was a horrible, heavy silence as McGonagall appeared from the back of the kitchen where she had been indulging in a cup of tea, in her tartan bed dress and bonnet. 

“I’m writing to both of your families.” She said austerely, the ridiculousness of her bedclothes not obfuscating her authority in the least. “You’ll both be spending your holidays here, in an extensive detention, or you can both pack your bags and leave Hogwarts. I have  _ never  _ in my  _ life—“ _

“Professor—“ Sirius interrupted, sounding panicked for the first time Remus had ever heard, “please—“

“No, Mister Black, this is unacceptable—”

“Please, professor, I’m happy to serve detention. Forever if you want, the rest of my Hogwart days, even— I’ll quit quidditch,” he pressed, shaking hands wringing the hem of his silk robes, startling a wide-eyed McGonagall into befuddled silence, “but please, when you write them, you have to say that I’m getting detention for hexing muggleborns.”    
  


McGonagall stood there with an unfamiliar plait peeking out from beneath her bonnet, no words forthcoming, as she clutched the back of a chair with white knuckles.

“Please, professor, please tell them that. Please don’t tell them it was for being out of bed after hours.” Sirius’s voice was becoming more pleading and more frantic as he spoke. His hands shook and his face was white and Remus and McGonagall were both staring at him as if he had sprouted a few extra limbs and began chanting in mermish. 

McGonagall still stood there in stunned, shocked silence and Sirius was still rambling, begging McGonagall to tell his parents that he was a bully and being reprimanded for torturing muggleborns, pleading, stuttering that if they knew McGonagall wanted to expel him, it would be all Walburga needed to bring him home for good. 

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” McGonagall croaked, finally, attempting an admonishment as she came forward and gently gripped the still frantically imploring boy before her, but her tone sounded more horrified and sombre than angry. 

Sirius flinched violently at the contact before calming his gasping breath and, Remus, Remus just stood there, shell shocked and confused. Mortified by the fear of his most brave and dear friend and wondered about the cruelness and madness of the world outside of the castle. 


	13. Yule King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Hypallepse for the french translation.

His paws fell rhythmically, unendingly, gloriously in a triplicate beat beneath him. A hungry lope through the elm and oak and birch trees that flushed full and brilliant green and spoke of late spring in the mountains. Of early summer in the forest. That remembered rains and the softness of damp earth beneath him that lent itself so wildly, so freely to the flush of life the forest housed. The stretch of the trees and the unfurling of so many hopeful leaves.

He let grouse and little scrub robins flutter from the brush beside him while flighty hares sped from the soft grasses beneath him, bright green and fragrant with their newness. In a shaded meadow, his relentless strides brought him within killing distance of a red deer, who started and ran, antlers dappled in shadow, calling for his mate. 

At the top of the forest, Sirius stopped at the crest of the northern ridge, sun high and bright at his back, casting his shadow, long and fractured, on the weathered slabs of granite and errant stones that slid beneath wide paws, caked with the mud and earth that still remembered the stream he’d crossed. The riverbed just south of where the red deer had fled. Where the long black fur of his coat had lay plastered against him, cold and brilliant, his paws falling sure on smooth river stones. 

As he broke from between the trees, the air shimmered hot and wide in the openness of the summer sky. The wind, somehow both billowing and gloriously unhurried, smelled of smoke, tasted of the singe on slabs of steak that dripped fat and oil onto coals below. The warm air seemed to swell up the ridge line to greet him. As if it remembered him. As if it brought news of the world below. It spoke of fire that charred the edges of flesh, of meat, of the iron of the mountain and of blood. Of death and fury. Of life. 

The wind welled up and brought him these things from the flat, hot stones of the earth that lay resplendent in the glory of the summer sun, islands of mountain that broke the endless sea of trees, blackened with iron and the passage of time, glittering with mica and the strange beauty of once hidden stone now basted with sunlight. With fire. 

In the valley below him lay a ring of Scots pine. 

______________

When Sirius woke that morning, memories of summer and the heat of the earth, fissures in the rock drenched in steam and the smell of blood and fire lay sooty and thick in his mouth and down his throat, into his chest and deep beneath his shoulder blades, and they stayed there, heavy and distracting, as he pulled himself from beneath the blankets and sheets, slipping feet into monogrammed slippers. 

Thoughts of the valley and the way the heat felt like it rent the earth wide and open sat around his thoughts as he brushed his teeth, combed his long hair and tied it back, wand of yew upright and unforgiving in the knot of his bun. He bent down and recalled how his feet— no, not feet, paws. How his paws had slid across the sand and stones and the sun had seemed to petrify the trees that had been brave enough to grow in a place so unforgiving. 

There had been claw marks in the granite. 

Sirius leaned down and splashed water across his face. Handfuls of cold, clear water, standing up to let it run along his closed lashes and into his open mouth and across parted lips and rosy cheeks and down his neck to the open collar of his sleep shirt. It left traces, little rivulets. It made rivers of him, cut through to the hot stone and the steam and the broken slabs of granite beneath his shoulders. Cold and clarifying and not nearly enough. 

“Mornin’ you mangey bastard.” 

It was James, eyes puffy with sleep and towel slung over his shoulder, which he promptly whipped off, twirled and snapped to land with a satisfying smack right across Sirius’s robe-covered bum. A well-practiced move that James could now execute with stinging accuracy, even so sleep-rumpled and full of early morning yawns as he was. 

“Rise and shine you terrible pillock.” Sirius couldn’t help the sharp edge of a grin that lifted the left corner of his mouth. He dabbed his face dry with a monogrammed towel from the rack. James was always a distraction he needed. Well, he had been. 

Today was the last day of term, and both James and Peter had plans for the Christmas holiday. James had been gearing up for the great joy of his holidays at home with family and all of their lovely sounding traditions where no one hexed each other blind or buried an elf without its head, and Peter, well, shame, Peter’s mum had been broken up with the week before last so she’d asked him to come home and have Christmas together this year. 

That meant it was just he and Remus spending the holidays at the castle. Minnie had been as good as her word and sent letters home for the both of them. A response from Remus’s dad had come through last night with his half mutilated owl nearly tearing down his bed hangings, screeching inconsolably as she struggled to remain either airborne or upright, and doing a shit job at both. 

Remus’s dad had been softly scolding, but somehow still kind, sad and sorrowful about missing his son and the loneliness of another hard winter. Heartbreaking, really. Sirius hadn’t heard from his parents yet, but he was sure it wouldn’t be so drenched in love as the simple note from Mr. Lupin had been. 

Turns out, he didn’t have long to wait. Galba, the larger of the two eagle owls his mother favoured, arrived that morning at breakfast, alighting heavily and with great authority between two trays of sausages and a full toureen of creamed spinach. At the sight of her Peter spilled milk all down the front of his robes. Soaked his toast, too. 

Galba’s great yellow eyes seemed to bore heavily into Sirius’s as he reached in between the bread rolls and lifted the small light green box with silver ribbon from beneath Galba’s talons. Even before he touched the simple thing, Sirius could feel the thrumming draw of his mother’s magic and the heavy, sinister pull of something deeply evil, dark and devouring and hungry in a way that wasn’t primal but spoke of gluttony. 

The hall was bustling and busy and loud in the jubilation of the last breakfast before the holidays officially began, but the noise seemed to sink into the stone of the floor as Sirius held the little green box in his hand. 

The bench shifted slightly as a thin-framed boy in a criminally ugly hand knitted sweater slid in beside him. Sirius slipped the box in his pocket, the smell of thyme and neroli and juniper from that horrible-wonderful skin cream he used seeming to break the thrumming pull of the magic housed within the soft green box with the silver ribbon. 

Galba took off, talons sharp and glittering in the late light of the morning. 

“Good tidings on the wings of old?” Remus asked softly, reaching for toast and jam and butter, the sweater sleeves pulled back and bunching about his elbows. 

Sirius poured himself a second steaming cup of coffee into his snowdonia mug, his palm wrapping gratefully and surely around the warmed ceramic, helping to forget the heaviness of the gift in his pocket. He wished it was hazelnut, but alas, a dark roast today. Heavy bodied by the looks of things. 

“Blessings of the old gods on our young souls, my wolf friend.” Said Sirius, unthinkingly. Gods, indeed, he was aching for a smoke. Something else to do with his hands. Remus elbowed him hard in the ribs, the black coffee hot and bitter as he drank from his mug, watching James trying to help clean up Peter, who had tried the siphoning charm himself and had ended up with running milk coming out of one ear. 

Distracted, Sirius turned on his house bench to look across the hall for Regulus, who was seated in the sea of serpents, happy and carefree, plate full of eggs and bacon, laughing between friends. Sirius lifted a hand to wave, and Regulus caught sight of him to wave back before being sucked back into whatever discussion he was in with Rosier. Sirius sighed deeply. His first winter at Baudelaire on his own. He’d be fine, of course. He’d play piano beautifully like the winters of old. Elsa and Isadora would coo over his long hair and the new charms he’d learned. Blah, blah, blah. 

Sirius thought of the percherons and the snow. Of the sounds of dogs in the woods at night. Of the hunt. Of little Leonie. It felt like drowning. The coffee wasn’t helping. 

Beside him, Remus shifted and Sirius felt his bony arm slip beneath his elbow, dragging him up to his feet. 

“Put your coffee down. Hell is empty and all the devils are here, and for that, I fancy a walk.” He took the snowdonia mug from Sirius’s hand and placed it back on the table. “James, Peter, journey safe and well and don’t forget us in all your holiday cheer.” 

Goodbyes were said, and Sirius waved to James half heartedly. Gods, again, he’d miss his best friend. 

“Yes, yes, parting is such sweet sorrow.” Remus positively hissed in his ear as they stepped out the front gates and down onto the frostbitten grass of early December that crunched just so beneath their feet. “Now what in the devil is going on with you. What did your mother send?” 

Remus smelled of fir and juniper and neroli and concern. It felt strange being on this side of the equation. Being the one taken for a walk. “A gift.” It was, wasn’t it? Wrapped up all delicately. Purposefully. A gift for her first born son. The first in so many, hateful years. 

Sirius sighed deeply, the two of them following their familiar path down the sloping lawns and to the glistening stillness of the Great Lake, which stretched wide and unthinking in the valley between several small hills and the edge of the forest they had come to know so well. His fingers traced the edges of the silver silk ribbon that still sat, tied just so, around the light green box in his pocket. 

“A gift?” Sirius could hear the careful skepticism in his voice. The raised eyebrow. Sirius regretted not waiting so that Remus could finish his toast. There were more important things, weren’t there? He wondered where that little toad, Barty Crouch had been. Absent from breakfast, from Regulus’s side. There’d hardly been a moment he’d seen one without the other in months. 

“Something cursed, I’m sure of it.” Sirius said finally, his thoughts drifting back to the box, their long strides taking them ever nearer to the edge of the water. “I’m just not sure it’s for me this time.”

Remus huffed, their quick steps in the cold air. “Is that better or worse?”

Sirius stopped. His boots felt stuck to the earth beneath him, as if it was holding him, pulling him, crushing him under the weight of all the things he wanted to say to that. All the ways he wanted to say how unfair it was that anyone had to ask. How he wanted to say he was only fourteen. That life wasn’t meant to be that complicated. That parents and families and love, these things were meant to be as simple as the sky and the grass and the thoughtlessness of the growth of trees. 

It wasn’t meant to be hard. To be painful. To be clinical. Precise. Exacting. Vengeful and terrible and calculating. It wasn’t meant to be a puzzle. To be a riddle. To be dangerous. 

Dangerous. 

Sirius pulled the box from his pocket, his feet still hard and still on the rocky soil of the lakeshore, the wind cold and persistent on his cheeks. 

Soft green. Silver. Stratus clouds streaked the sky far above, pulled thin and delicate in the high atmosphere. In a wind that couldn’t concern itself with such inconsequential things and as rocks and humans and trees. 

He pulled the ribbon away, the perfect bow falling to pieces, slippery and delicate with the ends cut just so. He lifted the lid. 

Beneath it lay a little square of cardstock, edged in black ink. Beautiful, looping, delightful script ran across the thick paper. He could imagine it was written with an eagle feather quill. Just sharpened. 

_ Fils pour qui j'ai tant saigné, saigne-les en mon honneur.  _

_ Toujours purs,  _

_ Mère _

Beneath the cardstock lay an ornate silver hatpin, the head of which was fashioned from porcelain painted black, hand painted, in fact, with reds and greens and golds, a beautiful floral design. The bottom of which was sharp and silver and shining in the sun of a late winter morning. 

The curse of the pin seemed to spill out from the little soft green box in his hands, flowing over his palms and across his forearms, rich and thick like velvet on his skin. Powerful magic. Old magic. 

She’d sent him a family heirloom. 

“Looks sharp.” Said Remus, voice full of skepticism. Sirius couldn’t imagine that even Remus and his wolf couldn’t feel the violence of the little hatpin, the lust. 

“What does the note say?” He’d been looking over Sirius’s shoulder, brow furrowed, sweater still pulled up around sharp elbows, hands clasped behind his back. It was a good thing, Sirius thought, Remus standing so reserved, keeping his spindly fingers at bay. Should he happen by the eager point of the hatpin, even a half-blooded hound like himself, he’d certainly meet death. And not in the fun, metaphorical, Shakespearean way, either. 

“She’s proud of me.” It was easier to say that than to repeat her words. Her ugly, ugly words. 

“For beating up muggleborns?” 

“She wants them dead, it seems.” 

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.” 

Sirius closed the lid of the soft green box and considered his options. Not many, it seemed. 

“Shall we walk a bit further?” Remus was cottoning on. 

“Yes. Maybe that will help.” Of course it wouldn’t, though.

They rounded the lakeshore, the giant squid so unhelpfully gone far below the shimmering flat water. 

Before long, they reached a familiar stand of birch, the one with the lone elm so conspicuously between paper white trunks, dark roots and heavy branches casting a wide and uncontested circle. Half sleeping bowtruckles made small noises of protests from the hollowed nests of woodpeckers high up in the trunk as Sirius approached, but their displeasure was only half hearted. It was cold. The beginnings of winter, after all. 

The hatpin sat heavy and resplendent in his pocket. 

“I think this is the first time in my life I’ve thought yes, perhaps it is easier to be a werewolf.” Remus stopped beneath his favourite birch, just west of the elm, sliding down the trunk to the cold grass beneath. “The politics are far less confusing. Very straightforward. Limited capacity for debate.” 

Sirius stopped beneath the elm and sighed heavily before laughing. “Don’t be a git.” 

“Seriously, this seems far more complicated. I thought I had it bad with lunar cycles, but at least there’s a calendar and expectations and no dress code. You, on the other hand, you’ve got to make huge ethical and moral decisions based on a damn hat pin. That, and I’ve seen you’ve got white silk gloves in your trunk. What happens with those, then? Genocide?”

“She made me wear them for cotillion.” 

“For what?”

“Genocide. You were right. I’ll throw them away, posthaste.” 

“And the hatpin? Can’t you just throw that away, too?”

“Throw it away where, Lupin? Things don’t actually disappear when you vanish them, you know. There’s always somewhere. Somewhere muggle, probably. Imagine the chaos.”

“Smells awful, yeah. They call it a dump.”

“How quaint.” Sirius rubbed his temples. He could really use that smoke just about now. “What I really want is to… to undo it. To take apart the magic. To make it just a hat pin. Make it muggle again. Boring. Defective.” 

“Sounds complicated.” Remus was tying knots in the stems of fallen birch leaves that lay, scattered, about his booted feet. 

“Of course it’s complicated, but I know it can be done.” Sirius paced beneath the bowtruckles and the dark boughs of the elm. “That’s how curse breakers work, you know, finding cursed or protected objects and they, well… they unweave the magic.” Sirius huffed dramatically and stuffed his left hand in his pocket at the same moment his right reached up without thought and slipped the yew wand from his hair. 

Remus raised his eyebrow, his interest piqued, as Sirius squatted down and placed the hat pin delicately on the leaf strewn ground, his hair tumbling over his shoulders. The yew wand hummed reproachfully in his hand as if anticipating the magic he wanted to do, and disapproving greatly at any attempts to tarnish a fellow heirloom, loyal as the wand was to his blood. 

Sirius understood the vague theory behind curse breaking. Arithmancy had proven quite fascinating and informative in that way, detailing the manners in which numbers and magic intertwined and created the architecture of spells, the membrane of a curse. He let his mind sift through what he thought he knew about divining the structure of curses and pointed his wand at the gleaming, seething hatpin. 

“ _ Khorda reveleo _ .” 

Instead of the matrix of spell work and lines of magic he had anticipated, there was a flash, a bang, and suddenly the tail Sirius’s robes were on fire, smoke billowing up, sending the bowtruckles into a frenzied mob, the glorified stickbugs screeching and chattering. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Sirius bit out, trying to stamp a booted foot on the smouldering end of his robes. 

Remus, in a panicked instant, must have jumped to his feet, and before Sirius could divine any semblance of a plan, Remus had pointed his own wand directly at Sirius’s rather preoccupied face and screamed an overzealous, “ _ AGUAMENTI _ ,” shooting an unexpected cannon blast of water from the tip of the Cypress. 

Before Sirius could do anything apart from gape in stunned confusion at the very quick series of events, he was slapped in the face with the startlingly cold water, stumbling backwards against the the tree, quite now full to the brim with angered bowtruckles, swarming along the high branches. 

“Dammit, Lupin!” Sirius yelled, sputtering and wet and cold, his hair plastered down and his robes still smouldering a bit.

“You were on fire!” Remus responded, defensively, his anxiety and panic slowly falling away from his face, being replaced by sheepish amusement.

“Don’t you dare laugh—“ Sirius warned, shaking his wet hair, sending droplets flying, an overwhelmed and defeated giggle bubbling in his throat. 

Remus covered his mouth and tried to pull a frown, snorting. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Sirius checked his robes. A ragged burnt patch had made a home the left bottom hem. 

“That should’ve worked. I’ve seen Vector do it hundreds of times by now.” Sirius dried his hair with a quick flick of his Yew wand, though it was rather curly and frizzy now, after all the hubbub. He flashed a smile at Lupin, who still looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“Oh, come on you git.” Sirius said, letting himself chuckle at the absurdity of it all. “Even I can cock things up now and again.” 

“Now and again.” Remus positively wheezed, doubling over and giving up the game of trying to hide the absolute avalanche of incredulity he had for the absurdity of his friend. “ _ Now and again _ .” His voice was a mere hiss over the force of his laughter now. “You just set yourself on fire.”

“Alright, alright, Wolfy McWolf over there. Remus who’s never had a single spell go awry.” Sirius huffed, then laughed himself, letting Remus’s mirth rub off on him. “Let a man have his moment.”

The hat pin, now divested of its box and ribbon, gleamed silver on the ground before Sirius, untouched by the dirt of the forest floor. Sirius raised his Yew wand again, twirling it slowly in his hand, staring down at the pin and thinking. 

“Going to try something else are you?” Remus was wiping tears from below his crinkled eyes, Cypress wand also held aloft. “I’m ready. I’ve got plenty more where that came from.” 

“I think my wand is loyal to the magic of the pin. I think they’re both bonded in Black family fidelity and my wand knows my intention is to destroy it, so it won’t cooperate with me.” What an obnoxious thought. Sirius furrowed his brow. 

“You could try mine? It’s unicorn hair and the only thing it seems particularly loyal to is not letting me do my transfiguration homework properly.” 

Sirius snorted another laugh. “Not powerful enough.” No he needed magic he was used to, familiar with, magic that worked with him to do these kinds of spells. Spells he had limited practice with and only a small hint of the theory. Magic where he could know it by smell or taste but struggled to explain exactly what it meant. How it worked. 

“Hey! I resent that, Black. It’s plenty powerful. I’m… you know, like… wolfy and stuff. Lots of power. My wand knows that.” Remus looked moderately insulted, and the fielty he had for the somewhat bent bit of Cypress was quite sweet. 

“No, yes, of course Lupin. Very powerful. Wolf and all.” The smile he gave Lupin was jaunty and carefree, and the heaviness and nastiness of the morning seemed to wade off into the forest of trees, the danger of the hatpin and the long winter days ahead without their dorm-mates long forgotten in the birchwood and beneath the elm. 

“So, what are you going to do with it?” Remus asked, pulling his terrible sweater tighter down over his wrists. 

“Hide it, I suppose.” Sirius reached down and took the shining silver into his hands. It felt oddly warm and decidedly sentient in his grasp. It made him nauseous. Or hungry. Or… both. 

Sirius ducked down beside the elm tree and dug a bit in the fallen leaves, coming up with an old wine bottle with dark green glass. 

“It’s not even ten Sirius, come on now.” Lupin griped, completely exasperated, the laughter gone from his voice and a tired incredulity mounting in its place. “You can’t just opt for a stiff drink and a jol whenever anything of consequence comes up.” 

Sirius rolled his eyes, back to Remus. As if he ever drank wine anyway. Red wine, even. How utterly plebeian. No, this was one of Yaxley’s old cache’s, and he didn’t think he’d mind if Sirius did a bit of thievery for the greater good. He pulled the cork from the bottle and emptied the last quarter of thick red liquid to the ground. He could feel Remus’s eyes on him, but he let Sirius get on with it, at least. 

Sirius dropped the pin down the narrow neck of the bottle, where it settled at the bottom with a small chink as the ceramic met glass. He returned the cork. 

“Can’t leave it here. Yaxley might drink the damn thing. Here, Remus, put it in your bag, won’t you? I’ll hide it under my bed or something until I figure out how to un-curse it.” 

“What kind of curse do you think it is? Like, what is it meant to do?” Remus asked, holding the bottle up and looking through the dark glass at the pin for a moment, before shuddering and stuffing the whole lot back into his shouldered canvas bag. 

“Something dreadful, no doubt. Something to do with blood, but I don’t know. I’m now keen to get up to the dorms and actually do my arithmancy homework, though, seeing as that might help me figure out what to do with the damn thing.” Sirius wrinkled his nose as he thought. “Might go check out a book on ancient runes or two. Heard Gideon talking about curse breaking after one of Professor Kelder’s classes. Something about tomb raiding in Egypt and pyre diving in Varanasi. Hectic stuff.” The two of them bumped shoulders together as they moved back through the trees at the edge of the lake and toward the lawns of the castle.

The wind was cold and there was a threat of snow in the dark clouds that loomed in the East as the two of them made their way back up to the warmth of the Gryffindor keep, where Sirius promised himself he’d hide the wine bottle beneath his bed, secret and safe. 

______________

_ December 21, 1973  _

Long after Sirius had forgotten about the cursed hat pin and he and Remus had spent hours upon hours scrubbing floors, polishing portrait frames and oiling the hinges of suits of armour, winter descended fast and properly about the castle. 

The solstice arrived like no other year in Sirius’s memory. It came quietly and with little splendour, and none of the fanciful debauchery that had adorned every other solstice Sirius had spent, the sun rising on the dark woods of Baudelaire, the sounds of the adults always vague and threatening in the eaves and the corners of the old chateau. 

No, this solstice the sun rose softly and quietly on the glittering grounds of Hogwarts, a fresh snow having fallen in the night, frosted over with ice in the coldest hours of the morning, so a crisp, solid layer coated the earth, the trees, even the gargoyles set so fastidiously about the arches of the old castle. 

This solstice, Sirius woke warm and cosseted in red sheets and beneath the familiar thick hangings of his four-poster, his thoughts a bright and clear welcome to the day ahead. Boughs of evergreens lay draped about the common room, the smell of fir thick and pleasant in the cold, clear air. 

At breakfast, clad in a fur-lined cape and his trademark black boots, he said a soft prayer to the old gods, the first time he’d ever done so unprompted, one hand wrapped around his snowdonia mug, steaming with hazelnut coffee this time, the other flat on the long slab of oak that built the ancient house table. 

He said the prayer in English this time, another first, and it surprised him. He didn’t think he would know the words, but he knew the sentiments, and those came easily and fruitfully in the still empty hall, the bewitched sky of the cold morning threatening still more snow. 

He ate in the old way. With intention on each bite. With an acknowledgement to the harshness, to the barrenness of winter. With gratitude. 

He couldn’t remember a year he’d had these thoughts. He couldn’t remember a time he’d sat with the old gods and not been distracted by the way Elagabalus sucked on bones for the marrow and the way wine made the women mean and then the whiskey made the men stupid and then malicious. He couldn’t remember a year he didn’t spend the Solstice more concerned with the petty affairs of men. Of wizards and witches who grew bold and unrefined in the presence of such rites. Such power.

He left the great hall as Hagrid was dragging in more freshly cut balsams, snow swirling in little eddies around his boots, lifting the tendrils of hair that had escaped his bun. Remus wouldn’t be awake for hours, Sirius thought, his footsteps crunching through the glittering layer of ice above the fresh snow. Not a better time in the world than now to fly. Than to drift in the freezing air and let the cold reawaken him. Embolden him. Scrub his soul clean with the bright sun, weak and low in the sky. Weak and low but present. Resilient. A reminder of the things to come. The slow turning of the earth. 

It was in the early hours of the afternoon that Sirius found himself back within the stone castle walls, nose and ears and cheeks so pink and bright. Brand new. He’d flown far and wide over the forbidden forest. Sought mountains and the low ridge lines beneath trees that forged a home in the jagged bits of rock that broke the surface. He’d skimmed the tops of tall elms and pines and towering oaks. He’d landed, just briefly in a small clearing he’d thought he’d recognised from a dream, a snowdrift concealing half fallen trees, the brook, frozen solid. He’d let himself sink in the snow and the cold and the emptiness of the forest at midwinter. Then he’d pulled his fur lined cloak closer about him and leapt back into the air. Back to the castle. 

He found Remus, still in too-short flannel pyjamas, back in Gryffindor tower, nose buried in a book, a long-gone-cold mug of tea balanced precariously on the arm of the plush chair he’d claimed by the fire, which had over burned and gone to ember. 

Remus didn’t look up from the pages of  _ Disarmed _ , Hortencia Deerborne’s magnum opus on defensive magic. “Fancy seeing you here, Black.” He sounded short and tired and the way he sometimes got when he’d been working too long without a reminder that shortbread and crumbling cheeses and sweet pears existed. He was only halfway through  _ Disarmed _ . Probably that nightmare chapter on protective house magic. Complicated stuff, it was. Not really for the faint of heart. 

Plus, Deerborne had a very nasty habit of making commentary on what kinds of sinful creatures and part-humans and half-breeds might be lurking in the dark, and that’s the real reason you should keep your perimeter charms up to date and frosty. Werewolves, and the like. It would rub Remus the wrong way. As it should. 

“Happy Solstice, Remus.” Sirius flipped his wand and refreshed the cold tea so that it was piping hot and letting off little waves of aromatic steam again. It smelled of clove and cinnamon and Sirius felt the old gods glow pleased. Heartened, Sirius levitated a fresh log from the stack by the mantle and stoked the coals back to flame. 

“Happy what?” Remus said, closing  _ Disarmed _ and bringing the re-brewed tea up to his lips, his brow furrowed and making him look much older. He hadn’t lost the ruffled look of someone just recently insulted, but the tea was always the way to start with winning Remus over to a good mood. 

“Solstice. A day to pay homage to the old gods.” Sirius pulled his thick winter cloak with the mink lined hood from his shoulders and draped it across the back of a chaise. He felt warm and bright and sure. He’d walked these rituals, recited the prayers the songs the psalms so many times, and never had he felt the touch of the magic of the winter gods. Never had he noticed that the power wasn’t within Baudelaire, within their barrels of mead or the sacrificial alter. The power wasn’t with them. Mere humans. It was with the cold and the depth of the night and the way the mountains held the cold. It was in the forest and the covered glades and the soil that would turn anew in spring. It was beyond them. 

Sirius felt like he had felt all those months ago on the rolling fields and in the waving grasslands that lay in thick swathes across Wales, under the wide wings and heavy bellies of soaring dragons. Keepers of their own magic, gods of their own kind. But that was summer, the sun high and glorious, that was stones warmed in the afternoons and thickets of green, vines that curled and stretched and reached their way to the bright blue of a noon sky. 

This, this was something new and hidden, but just so alive. Just so touched with the kind of unkempt sorcery no one wrote about in textbooks anymore. 

Old magic seemed to swell beneath Sirius’s hands and he let it tumble forth, the Gryffindor common room slowly morphing before them. Chairs and the red sofa slid back, white candles in old silver holders appeared in a ring on the floor, flickering to life. The smell of fir grew and the fire seemed to roar in the soft evening light. 

“Sirius.  _ What _ .” Remus was sitting in the now relocated armchair with his knees drawn up, mug of tea still clenched in his hand, staring at the way the room had shifted before them. Had conjured things. The way Sirius seemed to live and breathe a magic that was both unspoken and beautifully alive, wilful in its own right.  _ Disarmed _ lay abandoned, having slid beneath the bookcase in the corner. 

Sirius walked the rim of the circle of candles, right hand outstretched far above the soft flames, yet the heat seemed to stream up toward him on the tails of prayers gone up in gentle, fragrant smoke. “To the death of the old and the birth of the new. To immortality. To the reborn.” The fire in the grate seemed to sing with his softly spoken words. Somewhere in the castle, it sounded like music played, bells tolled. Time seemed to stand still.

On Sirius’s third pass of the circle, the fire calmed and the distant hymns faded back into the depths of the castle stones. Sirius stopped, boots perilously close to being adorned with softly dripping wax. “Come on, Remus. We need to eat.” He turned and faced the folded observer, still gripping his steaming mug of tea. 

“What _the_ _hell_ was that, Black.” His eyes were a bit comically wide, scars stretched. He no longer looked tight and bored and irritated, however. He looked young again. 

“I told you. Solstice. And now it’s time to eat. Winter feast. Normally we have grouse or duck or maybe rabbit stew, but I’m sure anything would please the gods. Anything to quell the hunger of midwinter.” Sirius strode over and picked up his fur-lined cloak. “To be honest, I think they may have been doing it wrong all along. Seems you don’t need the altar and the sacrifice and all the blood.” 

“ _ Blood _ ?” Remus said softly, not yet having moved from deep within the chair. 

“I think maybe they had quite a lot of things wrong. Baudelaire, indeed.” Sirius grumbled, fastening his cloak about his shoulders. “What’re you waiting for, Remus? Don’t you want shepherds pie?” 

Sirius’s stomach growled helpfully and he turned to make his way to the portrait hole, thinking of glazed ham and thick stews and apple crumble, the sound of the furniture returning to it’s normal places and the pop of the candles disappearing back into non-being at his back. As the portrait swung shut, a muffled “ _ What the fuck _ ” filled the growing quiet behind him. 

All the way down to the great hall, Sirius could hear Remus griping at his back. There were lots of mentions of the cursed hat pin and the inordinate amount of black velvet, lace and dramatics that seemed to define much of the family Black aesthetic. By the time they’d been seated together in the great hall, he seemed to have collected himself, but only just enough to decry how ridiculous it was that Sirius could just conjure things  _ out of thin air _ at a  _ whim _ because _ it’s Solstice or whatever _ . 

Sirius was busy tucking in to a great pile of mashed potato on his plate when Professor Shafiq entered the hall. His flowing robes were soft greens and golds, and he seemed to float across the stone floors. 

“Happy Solstice, Sirius.” He said softly as he passed, his eyes kind and soft and winged eyeliner belying much curious mischief behind his gaze. 

“Happy Solstice, Professor.” Sirius said, Remus looking up for a moment before sighing heavily and ignoring them both, heaping spoonfuls of roast squash onto his plate. There was more muffled grumbling around the butternut. 

“I see you’ve found solace with the old gods.” Professor Shafiq inclined his head ever so slightly, his hands, full of many golden rings, folded together at his waist. He looked immensely pleased, but in a way that didn’t leave him ruffled or disorganised. Just pleased. 

“I think I have.” Sirius agreed, waiting a moment before spluttering. “I’ve never felt… I mean, I’ve never been able to… What I mean to say is this is my first solstice that…”

Sohail Shafiq’s laugh was tinkling and bell-like and Sirius couldn’t help but smile at the way it lit up his dark features. “You may begin to notice, young Black, that it’s not the people who make a ritual powerful. It’s not a name. It’s not blood. It’s not even the ritual itself.” He reached out and ruffled Sirius’s hair affectionately, gold rings all the more obvious in Sirius’s tousled black locks. “Intention matters.” 

“Sohail, so good of you to join us! Come and sit.” Dumbledore called from the table at the head of the hall. “I was just telling Poppy of your last treatise on the power of compassion, published in  _ Charmwork for the Future _ last month, wasn’t it?” Dumbledore’s voice was similarly thick with the mirth of the season. 

“Coming Albus.” Professor Shafiq said softly, his whole person seeming to glitter with gold. “Young Sirius Black, I hope you won’t mind joining me for your detention tomorrow. Professor McGonagall I think will be most pleased that I have many things on which you may work and over which we may have tea and discuss. And, I think, perhaps now in this new year, you are ready.” 

“Of course, Professor.” Sirius replied, a bit awestruck, watching Professor Shafiq go in a glorious swirl of gold and soft greens. He was like a veela sometimes, Sirius thought vaguely, unendingly alluring. He turned back to the feast, catching sight of Remus still pulling faces and muttering to himself. “Didn’t even greet” was distinctly audible around a large portion of glazed ham. It made Sirius laugh, and a great warmth seemed to settled within him, about him. 

It was odd, this new feeling of peace. Of comfort. Of something deeper and more profound than the petty squabbles and stringent sting of so many rules that had so routinely characterised this time of year. The winter season. 

How strange it felt to be here, so far from the grips of Baudelaire. And how strange, too, that Professor Shafiq, a man who’s name was similarly burdened, seemed to be so similarly ensconced in the favours of the old gods and between magic that was soft and wild and blurred. 

Sirius had a feeling he would learn quite a lot from him. And, as fate and fortune would have it, he did. 

______________

“But Professor,” Sirius started, the polishing rag in his left hand hanging limply, “I don’t understand.” The candlestick he’d been shining was only half finished. Much of the work Sirius started on in detentions with Professor Shafiq seemed to end up half finished, that was just the nature of the way the hours tumbled by, as if Sirius was there to think, to sip tea, to listen. As if these hours he served in efforts to polish himself much more than the errant silver antiques that dotted Professor Shafiq’s many favoured classrooms. 

“I know you don’t. Not yet. But you will.” Shafiq’s winged eyeliner was topped with brilliant blue-purple eyeshadow today, and he looked positively ethereal, seated against silken throws and floor cushions in one of the sunniest classrooms of the ground floor. He was brewing tea again, jasmine, and there were rose petals dusted about the floor. 

“You are your own being Sirius, beyond your name, beyond your blood. These things helped create and define you, but, ultimately, you are a human with free will. Where one is born is not necessarily where one dies. You are welcome to change anything and everything in between.” 

“How can I, Professor? How can you say I am welcome to? If I go against anything they say… There’s no options for me there. You must know what it’s like.” This was the closest Sirius had come to admitting to what things were like at Grimmauld Place. To lending his voice to the fact that he didn’t have a voice. A say. That they beat him. They hurt him. They owned every word that came from his mouth. Every movement he made. He was perfectly choreographed in the halls of his forefathers. Under the watchful eyes of noble and ancient houses. 

“Of course I do, Sirius. Of course.” Shafiq lifted an ornate silver teapot from where it was boiling and dipped it gently, jasmine tea flowing down into dainty china cups below. “I know you have been surviving. I don’t mean to diminish your efforts. I just see within you that you want a different life. Maybe you need one. I’m here to let you know that, when the time comes, you may have it.” He passed Sirius the small floral cup and saucer. 

“But when is that? How will I know?” Sirius wiped his hands on the rag and vanished it absentmindedly, his whole focus on Professor Shafiq. 

“Well,” started Shafiq, sipping at his own tea, entirely unhurried, “when the balance shifts in such a way that you find the moral and ethical compromises you have to make entirely untenable.” 

Sirius glowered over the rim of his teacup. “What I mean is,” Shafiq clarified with a soft laugh, “that some day you will find a moment where you cannot not act. Where you cannot imagine a way forward without change. Without doing what is right. What is good.” 

“Someday, you will decide what is most important to you.” Sirius hung on his every word, and he felt each of them sinking into his skin, slowly, deliberately. The dainty teacup in his hands was boiling hot, but somehow he couldn’t find the focus to put it down. 

“So far, you have been choosing your safety, and that is perfectly acceptable. It is okay. It is important that you remain safe.” Professor Shafiq swirled the cup between his fingers, golden rings now accompanied with what felt like hundreds of tiny thin golden bangles on his wrists. 

“But someday. Someday it will also be safe to do something else. To be something else.” There was a thick and comfortable silence between them, the smell of jasmine and rose lingering in the room with all the thoughts Sirius didn’t have names and words for. “Someday soon.” 

Sirius let the quiet fall about the room. 

“Tell me the story again, Professor. How you left.” Sirius sat himself down on the plushest and his most favourite of the satin floor cushions, deepest blue, just like the night sky, bright white stars hand woven into the fabric. It was as if he sat, ensconced within the firmament. 

Sohail Shafiq smiled, setting his jasmine tea down with a soft chink of porcelain on the rosewood table. “Well, young Sirius Black, as you well know by now, it all began on a warm and windy day in late April. I was older than you are now, much older, but I was young and irreconcilably naive in other ways, as the young men of pureblood households often are.” 

Sirius nodded and remained silent, waiting for Professor Shafiq to finish lighting, then blowing out, a stick of incense that he stuck in a trough of waiting sand. The smell of myrrh slowly built, and Sirius sipped at the jasmine tea, still entirely too hot to be held comfortably in his hands. 

“Well, as you know by now as well, that it would be on that warm and windy day in late April that I met a young woman, drastically different than myself, who would change my life forever.” Professor Shafiq leaned back against a powder blue throw pillow, edged in silver trim, his robes of purest white seemed effortless and nebulous, his whole being seemed to convey such an incomprehensible oneness with the universe. The whole effect was alarmingly captivating. 

“A young woman named Gloria Figg.”


	14. Osler's Moon

_ December 24, 1973 _

Christmas Day dawned grey and windy, with snow clinging to the dormitory window panes and frost obscuring the view of the sweeping tundra below. Remus woke slowly to the light tread of bare feet on stone, the remnants of a dream, wild and unencumbered, still lingering in his periphery. He didn’t want to wake yet, trying desperately to hold onto the freedom of running through dense underbrush, his body taut and tense and so satisfied as he howled his joy at the moon— such a forbidden fantasy, one his waking self wouldn’t allow. Despite this, the strong smell of hazelnut coffee permeated the veil of his dreams and the grumbling of his stomach pulled him back into his body and away from the dark forest bathed in misty moonlight.

“Rise and shine, Lupin!” came Sirius’s voice, far too cheery for such an early hour. 

“What time is it?” Remus asked, yawning and stretching, feeling his bones and muscles creak and pop beneath his tight skin, reluctant yet to leave his warm nest of blankets. He winced as the fibres of his sweater pulled free from the drying, crusty wound on his inner elbow. Nearly two weeks since the last moon and the stubborn gash refuse to heal.

“Time to get up and eat your toast.” Sirius offered, side eyeing Remus carefully. 

Throwing the thick duvet from his head, Remus sat up to see Sirius in his customary robe, the sash dragging haphazardly in the early morning darkness, carrying a ladened tray full of teetering stacks of croissants, a small mountain of assorted cheeses, little jars of various jams, and a bowl of carefully rolled balls of butter. 

Sirius’s hair was not yet brushed, hanging in soft, wild curls around his face. His robes had fallen open in his early morning wanderings, revealing one of Remus’s t-shirts, on back to front and inside out. 

“What’s the occasion?” Remus asked, gingerly feeling his wound under his sweater as Sirius climbed onto the foot of his bed and placed the tray between them. 

“It’s Christmas, obviously.” Sirius said proudly, happily. He poured them each a coffee, adding the honey to Remus’s, just as he liked it.

“But, you had your yuletide celebrations already.” Remus countered, accepting the warm coffee, watching as Sirius began to butter a croissant. 

“Yes, well, that was me, wasn’t it? This is Christmas, and now you can do something nice like eat this _ pain au chocolat _.” And he pushed the pastry towards him. 

Remus grinned the way he did when Sirius let slip a bit of French, taking a sip of his coffee and choosing not to tease him for it. He spotted a folded _ Prophet _ beside Sirius and leaned forward to grab it. He settled back into his pillows to peruse the paper and thought balefully to himself how much of a right old man he felt in that moment as he squinted down at the minuscule writing. He hoped Sirius wouldn’t comment on the way he clutched at his inner elbow, but he was far too busy schmearing butter across an already jam-covered scone.

Remus only briefly scanned the front few pages of recipes, gossip columns, and opinion pieces, his eyes pausing on a scathing article, damning Dumbledore. He'd been in discussions since the last decade on securing a constitution of merpeople rights, and his newest white paper had caused quite the uproar.

“Oi, don’t touch the crossword without me, you back-alley-stray.” Sirius warned around a mouthful of scone. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Remus assured mildly, pulling open the next page and shaking the creases out of the slightly damp newsprint. There was nothing much of interest in today’s copy, just a little piece that caught his eye about his dad’s department at the Ministry of Magic, the Beast, Being, and Spirit Division. The laws about arresting ghosts were being challenged by a distressed group of people being haunted. Though, how one would go about containing a ghost, was up for heated debate. 

Some poor old woman, the group’s apparent spokesperson, Olive Hornby, was raging in an interview about being stalked by the ghost of an old classmate and that the Ministry was responsible for protecting its magical citizens. 

_ “...that spectral horror has gotten enough revenge and justice to last her several lifetimes! Ruined my brother’s wedding and all. She’s in every family reunion picture going back 30 years, and I’m sick of it! _

_ ...can’t even have a wee at two in the bloody morning without being drenched by an exploding faucet ‘cause she come flying out of it, screaming about our school days! I mean, really!” _

“Alright, Black,” Remus said, flipping the paper open to arts and culture, where they were accustomed to passing the hours working a deviously tricky puzzle written by famed wizarding journalist and professional dueller, Eli Shwartz. “What’s a six letter word for an elf-like creature?”

They passed several lazy hours drinking cold tea and re-buttering seemingly endless croissants, the absurdity culminating in Sirius standing atop the four poster, brandishing his blunt knife, adamant that “‘a five letter word for a muggle device used in battle’ just has to be a sword, Remus!” 

Remus, par for the course, was doubled over, plaintively trying to explain why that was blatantly incorrect because muggles stopped using swords in battle over two hundred years ago. 

To which, Sirius, riled with indignation was shouting, “Well, what would they bloody give up swords for, Remus?! They haven’t got magic?” 

It was in this moment, just seconds before Remus felt compelled to let Sirius know about the advent of gunpowder, both of them broken with laughter and eyes streaming with mirth, that Claudia appeared at the snow covered window, clearly having mistaken it for an open archway, startling them both. Remus didn’t know how long she’d been there, clutching perilously to the scant ledge, but her sudden shrieking and wild flapping caused them both to jump and Sirius to kick a plate of cheese onto the floor with a great clatter.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Remus said jumping out of bed, Sirius still cataplexic with laughter on the bed behind him. 

Wrenching open the window, Claudia flew in gratefully, flinging powdery snow everywhere. Down Remus’s shirt, into the steaming cup of coffee still clutched in his hand, on his face, all over the floor, and then onto Remus’s bed, and Claudia was still flinging the cold powder this way and that when she crash landed into the french press, spilling it and the hazelnut brew all over Sirius, who yelped in surprise.

After a few moments of nearly-scalded-yet-somehow-snow-covered chaos, the two of them grabbed their wands and set right the situation, promptly vanishing all sorts of crumbs, a broken plate and siphoning off the coffee. Remus, having restored relative order to absolute chaos, sat on his bed and reached for the frantic bird to try and soothe her seemingly irreconcilable agitation.

He coo’ed at the little creature and scratched between fluffy ear tufts while Sirius griped about her unprecedented gracelessness, double and triple checking his coveted snowdonia mug for chips. Once reassured it had remained unscathed, Sirius joined Remus in praising the unfortunate bird, despite her many faults. 

It was only after they had sat a few moments, appreciating the absolute hilarity of her giant eyes, that Sirius took notice of the discarded package.

“Ah! The great bastard!” Sirius boomed happily as he jumped back off the bed, scooping the package and attached letter from half beneath Peter’s bed. 

The package was from James, addressed to them both, as Remus had expected, judging by Sirius’s overjoyed reaction. The mother-hen that he was, James hadn’t stopped writing the two of them since he’d left, and he could tell it buoyed Sirius, lifting him out of the distracted melancholy he sank into after his detentions with Professor Shafiq. Sirius read the letter aloud, with much gesticulating and great flair. It was sweet and funny and chronicled James’s adventure into a muggle shopping centre with his dad and their ride on an escalator. Thrilling stuff, really. 

Enclosed was a packet of sweets from his family in Madras and a parcel of pastries from his mum, all tied together with dire threats to send a reply posthaste. 

Sirius summoned a quill and parchment, and together they penned a response including much nonsense and crude humour. They closed it together, Sirius signing his missive with great flourish; 

_ I solemnly and dutifully declare I will refrain from mischief making in your absence, _

_ your brother in arms, _

_ \- SOB _

And Remus, a simple; 

_ All devilry has been suspended, pending your return. _

_ Lupin _

After rolling the scroll and securing it to Claudia’s leg, Remus walked back to the window, kissing the little owl on the head as he went, before carefully tossing her out and watching her frantically right herself as she flew off back towards wherever James was spending his joyful family holiday. 

They spent the rest of Christmas Day in quiet enjoyment, held in the softness of firelight and the comfort of the empty common room. Late in the afternoon, Sirius produced his hangdog notebook, filled end to end with handwritten runic spells, some of which he and Sirius attempted, though poorly, to translate. Well, really, Remus was just there for moral support as Sirius tried to decipher the complicated spells with as much of the knowledge of runes he could muster, having only taken the subject for one term. 

Someone named Shunpike had promised these spells weren’t entirely dangerous, and, together, they did their best to prove that theory wrong. All the while, Remus was regaled with tales of dragons and elemental magic and days filled with sun and flame. 

It wasn’t until near dinner time, as Remus was being pelted by pillows in the common room, courtesy of a rogue jinx that Sirius was trying frantically to remedy, when a particularly well aimed cushion caught him in the crook of the arm. Remus fell forward onto his knees, teeth bared and hissing in pain as he clutched the searing gash, ripped freshly open. 

“_ Finite incantatum! Finite incantatum _!” Sirius yelled several times in an attempt to stop the rogue pillows from pummelling Remus while he was down, before they finally all fell lifeless to the floor.

“Thanks,” Remus said weakly, gingerly letting go of his arm and carefully extricating it from his sweater to assess the damage.

“Blimey, Lupin, what’s happened to your arm, mate?” Sirius’s voice was concerned and slightly accusatory. 

“Oh, you know, the moon. The motion of those pesky celestial objects. The very architecture of the universe,” he mithered, his fingers gently touching the red hot margins of the wound, watching as it oozed slightly. 

“Ghastly stuff, that.” Sirius crouched beside Remus, and reached his hands out to examine the shaking arm for himself. Remus winced again, startled by how warm and considerate Sirius’s hands were, and braced himself when he watched him draw his wand.

The whispered healing charm swept across his skin like a cool breeze, but didn’t seem to make much of a difference. He tried again several times, Remus holding very still all the while. 

“I don’t know, mate, I think this is beyond us.” He said apologetically, finally letting his arm go. “Too bad we can’t go back to the hot springs.”

“Not unless we fancy living there for the rest of our days,” Remus snorted, “Minnie would kill us where we stood, if she caught us again. Or worse, expel us.” Remus didn’t say aloud what he was actually thinking, memories of the peppery fear that’d wrapped his bones when they’d all heard the screech that had ricocheted through the dark. Minerva McGonagall was a force to be reckoned with, yes, but she didn’t quite make the wolf cower the way that sound had. 

“You know, maybe we could make something for this. Peter did manage to keep a bit of the Fire.” Sirius said thoughtfully. 

“No,” Remus protested. “No more sneaking out, I’ll be fine.” He retrieved his arm and covered it with his cold hand.

“Who said anything about sneaking out?” Sirius asked, with clear offence. “I was going to say we should ask Slughorn if we can use a potions room. McGee can’t begrudge us extra learning opportunities, can she?”

“I suppose not.” Remus said with narrowed eyes. 

“C’mon, then Moons, let’s wrap that arm and head for dinner.” He conjured some gauze and a long strip of black fabric, winding around the covered wound. “Let me do the talking, though. Can’t have you quoting Nietszche and fouling the mood if anyone happens to mention the inconvenient fact that we all exist.” And with that, Remus giving in and smiling fondly at his snickering friend, they headed off to Christmas dinner with a clear purpose and about one third of a plan.

_ ______________ _

_ December 26, 1973 _

Steam billowed in fragrant clouds above the bubbling cauldron and Sirius’s hair was uncharacteristically frazzled by the humidity of their frantic brewing. Remus did his part by methodically pounding fresh comfrey in his mortar, turning the prickling fuzzy leaves into a gelatinous green goo. Brewing potions certainly wasn't what Remus expected to be doing the day after Christmas, but he figured he shouldn't complain as the crook of his arm was now so swollen it was making it hard for him to bend his elbow or lift things without considerable pain.

Sirius, brow furrowed and focused, was stirring the satin liquid with a flippant and familiar hand as he paged through the instructions in Slughorn’s copy of _ Kitchen Witchery and Home Remedies: Balms for Basic Cuts, Bruises and Abrasions of Magical Origin _, muttering to himself as he went, “50 grams evaporated bubotuber pus, chopped eel’s leather, yes, okay… macerated lavender flowers, 32 of those in a spoon full of noon harvested clover honey, got it… the gel of three split aloe leaves harvested in late autumn— oi, Remus, are you ready with that comfrey?”

Remus passed the jiggling heap of leaves over to Sirius, who surveyed them with great scrutiny and intensity before deciding it was of good enough quality to add to the gently simmering pool of liquid. 

The Christmas feast last night had proven fruitful in more ways than one. Between mouthfuls of duck confit and roast asparagus, mounds of mashed potatoes and piles of candied carrots, Sirius charmed Professor Slughorn so thoroughly, with his talks of things that went clean over Remus’s head, that he was only too happy to offer a spare potions room for their “extracurricular studying”, as Sirius had put it. Slughorn had chuckled genially about some fanciful story Sirius told of a rabbit, a hare and a golden egg full of hope, and he’d handed him both the keys to the potions room and a second set for the ingredients cupboards by the end of their main course. Over desert, plum pudding and rum soaked cakes, Slughorn had handed over his entire key ring, indicating a small silver one that would open his private store. Remus did his best not to listen. 

The only inconvenience in their plan, aside from a stern warning from their head of house that left Remus a little queasy, the rich meal heavy in his belly, was the fact that they were, unfortunately, sharing a spare potions room with, well, Severus. 

“He’s been helping me brew headache potions for Madam Pomfrey for a bit of extra credit and I’m sure he’d be delighted to share the space with you both.” Slughorn had boomed, indicating the hunched, awkward form of Snape down at the other end of the table. “He’s really been such a help, gathering all those ingredients from the grounds, even taking a night to scour the forest edge at my request. Chanterelles really are my favorite this time of year.” 

Sirius had nearly faltered, looking down the ladened Christmas feast to where Severus sat, looking mulish and betrayed, no, fully enraged, rather, ensconced between professor Sinistra and a sixth year Slytherin with a terrifyingly dated bowl haircut. But Sirius recovered quickly, smoothly pulling on his winning smile and winking cheekily, particularly chuffed at the idea he’d be using Snape’s hard won ingredients. 

A smile he’d brought with him until now, with Snape sitting on the opposite end of the potions room, surrounded by heaps and heaps of freshly picked herbs. They’d been working in a tense and tandem silence, Sirius opening cupboards and helping himself to rare and exotic ingredients left and right. The straw that broke the camel’s back seemed to be his relative indifference at spilling a half empty jar of acromantula eggs. 

Snape let out a huff of aggrieved and disbelieving incredulity that carried across the stone room just as Remus began the task of shredding lemon balm, its pleasant citrusy smell in stark contrast to the dour atmosphere of the potions room, Sirius hurrying back to their bench, tying up his hair into a bun with an errant unicorn tail hair he’d discovered behind the lacewing fly larvae. 

“Something to say, Snivellus?” Sirius bit out, as he reached for the block of beeswax, seeming to have nothing but animosity towards their classmate’s existence in their shared space. 

“Nothing to you, Black,” Severus said with an attempt at unaffected aloofness that fooled no one. 

Remus watched as Severus scuttled to the cabinet in Sirius’s wake, reorganising several glass jars and muttering mutinously. Something about running from centaurs, Remus thought he said at one point, looking near angry tears as he fastidiously attempted to re-fill the now empty jar that had held acromantula eggs, which were now scattered across several stacks of dried honeybush. 

It was several long, tense minutes before Snape returned back to his bench and his over-large cauldron, shooting glares in their direction every time Sirius seemed to drift closer to the potion stores, but Sirius was far too engrossed in his own brewing process and the twirling of his yew wand as he read and re-read ingredients and instructions to notice. 

“I thought you were helping Slughorn,” Remus asked, doing his best to try to steer the atmosphere in the room to something less hostile.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Severus spat, adjusting the flame beneath his cauldron. 

“I only meant I didn’t think you’d just be doing all his brewing _ for _ him. Seems like a lot of work for a third year.” Remus offered, trying to be kind, but the wolf sensed the raising of Sirius’s hackles beside him. 

“Well, Slughorn trusts me and any first year should be able to brew a headache potion,” Severus said sniffily, almost proudly before turning back to his work. He was struggling to open an ancient wax-sealed jar of pickled snails.

Remus opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by Sirius asking him for the rest of the shredded lemon balm. He handed it to Sirius who added the leaves, pinch by pinch, and, together, they watched the colour of the potion turn from a translucent moss to an opaque seaweedy colour. It smelled floral and clean and as Sirius continued to stir the concoction, it thickened to the consistency of pudding. 

“It’s almost done,” Sirius said in a low voice, leaning in over the cauldron. “Hand me the— you know—” 

“Oh, right,” and Remus clumsily felt for the little vile in his pocket, labelled with Peter’s untidy script. Carefully and covertly, he passed it across the table to Sirius who was shiftily watching Severus, ensuring nothing would be noticed. 

The only trouble was, they weren’t entirely sure how the potion would react to the addition of Osler’s Fire. It could be minimal, it was a generally safe and basic potion, as Sirius had repeatedly tried to assure him. 

“Or,” Sirius had said, after explaining the plan to Remus last night, with an air of one trying to quickly gloss over a minor inconvenience that left Remus sputtering after him, “there could be a small explosion, owing to the concentration of sulphur.”

It was anybody’s guess, really, and now it was too late to turn back. It’s not as if they had asked Slughorn, either, for how on earth would two third years have gotten a hold of Osler’s Fire in the first place. 

No, much to Remus’s dismay and anxiety, they were flying blind with this one. 

Sirius looked up at Remus, smiling roguishly. Minimal plan? Probable impending catastrophe? He really was in his element. Together, they pulled safety goggles on over their eyes, to the great confusion of Severus, who likely watched them with wide eyes and a furrowed brow from over his own bubbling cauldron, but the two of them were far too engrossed in the moment to have looked up to check. Sirius looked properly like a mad scientist as he uncorked the little vial and carefully tipped it into the thick bubbling liquid. 

The effect was immediate. Sulphurous smoke billowed out in thick yellow clouds, causing Severus to shout in surprised concern, his voice quickly disappearing in the dense cloud that quickly consumed the stone room.

There was an ominous popping noise, but, much to Remus's eternal relief and gratitude, no explosion. 

“How in Salazar’s name have you two idiots managed to cock up a basic skin potion?” Snape berated them, coughing, trying to clear the smoke with ineffectual flapping of his hands. 

“Don’t bother your greasy little head about it, Snape, we’re doing just fine over here” Sirius said as well as he could, wheezing through plums of noxious gas as he was. He stirred precisely 20 grams of grated beeswax into the now aggressively neon yellow potion. 

Remus watched transfixed as Sirius continued to stir the potion harder and harder, the texture becoming glossy and smooth like caramel. Snape crept over to observe their goings-on with a steady litany of insults and accusations of substandard academic achievement punctuated by coughing fits. 

“That’s not the right colour,” he declared, accusatory and entirely misinformed, nose about an inch away from the instructions in the book. “It says right here, it’s supposed to be a muddy green, not _ violently chartreuse _. What rubbish is this?

“I _ said _— don’t worry about it,” Sirius gritted out, whipping the thickening cream ever harder. 

Remus shrugged his apology at Snape, but he just turned away with his nose in the air, all offence and temper just as bad as Sirius’s. 

When the emollient was finally ready and the sulphurous cloud dissipated, Sirius scooped the concoction carefully into a wide mouthed glass jar with a sigh of relief and labeled it “_ Osler’s Moon _”. Remus snorted. 

“Lets see it then, Lupin,” he said sternly, indicating his arm. Remus shot a worried look at Severus, who was _ still _ watching them with far more interest than he thought was warranted, before shaking his head. 

“Not here,” he muttered, eyes downcast and voice soft. He could see Severus leaning toward them, desperate to catch every word. 

And, so, rolling his eyes in Snape’s direction, Sirius marched Remus out of the dungeons, jar of emollient in hand and the remaining contents of the cauldron resolutely vanished. Sirius made sure he left the bench for Snape to clean, chiding Remus’s attempts to sweep up the dried herbs and schmears of comfrey goo. 

“See ya, Snivellus.” Sirius had called from the corridor as they left. 

Back in the private sanctuary of the dorms, Remus tossed his sweater aside and allowed Sirius to scoop a measure of intensely yellow balm directly onto the centre of the angry wound. Immediately, Remus felt relief wash over him, and he was struck by how accustomed he had become to the pain as it slowly eased away. 

“Better?” Sirius asked with a smile as he re-bandaged his arm. 

“Better,” Remus smiled back, pulling his navy cable knit back over his head, marvelling at the pleasant warmth spreading through his arm, as if he had just dunked it into the hot pools of the forest, vibrant and glowing with heat of the earth itself. 

Absolute relief. 

______________

_ December 29, 1973 _

Professor Doge was a sweet man, a little waffling and odd, but kind and soft, and Remus thought sometimes that he’d be better suited to the quiet din of a great monastic library than the messy and noisy Defense against the Dark Arts classes of Hogwarts. 

Remus’s detentions with the little wizard had proven a bit peculiar, in that, it didn’t feel much like a detention at all. More like a standing lunch date that he wasn’t allowed to skip. A long lunch date that involved a lot of dusting and inventorying of odd creatures and fascinating teaching aids or practice of defence spells far beyond the third year.

“Dear boy, please, this one next, right over here,” Doge encouraged.

Remus had just finished disarticulating, meticulously cleaning, then re-articulating the barren skeleton of a “freshly caught Cornish pixie” on a dainty wooden plinth. He’d finally mastered a dastardly evasive little manoeuvre to unite the seventeen carpal bones of the left wrist, employing a tight looping charm and a bit of copper wiring he’d found in the bottom drawer of Doge’s desk. 

Remus righted himself from where he’d been contorted on the floor, needing a proper view of the trapezius and triquetrum to get the spell perfectly right, reaching up to delicately replace the macabre oddity on its shelf, satisfied completely with his work. He stretched his arm out, grateful for the liberal applications of Osler’s Moon that eased the ache in his bones and softened the stiffest of his scars, allowing him the mobility and stamina he needed for the tedious tasks of detentions with the Defense professor. 

Turning toward Doge’s fading mutterings, he picked his way across the cluttered office, his oversize oxfords a hazard between towering stacks of books and assorted bell jars. Narrowly avoiding what looked like a paper wasp nest, which was buzzing ominously now that he thought more carefully about it, he stepped over to where Doge was extracting a great jar from the corner of a forgotten table, covered in stacks of old journals. Obscured with dust, the jar seemed to emit a faint melody, like that of a toy music box, soft and light.

Doge wandered off to another shelf, his faded purple robes swishing behind him, the light catching the silver embroidery, leaving Remus to the laborious task of removing what felt like thirty years of neglect from the magically sealed glass, the charm work of which he could feel peppering the heels of his hands and the tips of his fingers as he ran them along the dusty surface. Beneath the layers of grime, Remus could see the magical replica of a miniature three headed dog, snoozing pleasantly together on their shared paws. 

Tapping the glass gently with his fingernail, one of the beasts' heads lazily lifted a single eyelid, surveying the cause of its disturbance. Seeming to think Remus was of no threat or interest, the dog closed its eyes and resumed snoring, the tinkling music lulling it back into its state of perpetual slumber. The wolf, deep within his chest, grumbled discontentedly, feeling a certain ache for the trapped dog that Remus didn't really want to think about. 

He finished cleaning the jar until it was spotless, taking a moment to watch the sleeping dog with a pang of grief before reluctantly rising, knees popping, and moving over to a set of old grubby framed photographs Doge had set out for Remus to clean. 

He let his mind wander as he began wiping the glass and burnishing the frames of the dozens of well loved photos, many of which were of a young Doge on his adventures around the world. The younger Doge had long blond hair and striking green eyes and barely resembled the dotty old professor with short fuzzy hair that hummed tunelessly and intermittently broke into song. 

Lifting a wooden framed photo, he saw Doge waving enthusiastically in a long white robe before the Pyramids, his hair tucked back in a straight plait, standing beside a handsomely bearded man in an embroidered robe, waving with a more subdued, relaxed enthusiasm. The man’s cool nonchalance put Remus in mind of Sirius, and he grinned to himself. He wondered absently why none of them had thought to get hold of a magical camera and taken photos together. He’d have to ask Peter about it, his mum having dated a photographer last year. 

The next one was a painted frame with vining flowers, encasing an image of Doge beside a young woman in an old fashion swimsuit, both on a beach with palm trees waving lazily as they sipped something out of a coconut. 

Another was of Doge riding an elephant in a bamboo forest, and the next of him being robbed of his lunch by a troop of baboons before a great flat-topped mountain. Each looping image beneath the dust had captured a particular moment, a single story in what must have been a fascinating life. 

He cleaned photo after photo of Doge on his youthful and exciting adventures, and the further down the line he went the more frequent were the appearances of that same handsome man from the Pyramids. In each one, his face and disposition held the cool languor and haughtiness that could only come from pureblood families of notable names. It was something he could see clearly in Sirius, and in some of his other classmates. An unaffected nonchalance and a confident stride. It was in stark contrast to the expressive innocence of the smiling, gesticulating, and all together graceless Doge, who reminded Remus of James. The kind of person who wore their feelings on their sleeve, that left no room for doubt about how they felt. 

Doge and the handsome man could be seen together in Vietnam wearing matching pointy hats, floating down a river. Walking the streets of Paris by the Eiffel tower, and crawling over a snowbank to peer at a pair of polar bears. 

Remus was just in the middle of thinking about how nice it must be to travel the world with your best mate, wondering if he would ever do the same with James or Sirius or Peter, when he picked up a tiny and tarnished copper framed photo, the minuscule image of yet another of the two men. 

He froze, clutching the little innocuous picture, his eyes watching the loop over and over again, his heart pounding in his ears, sweat breaking out across his brow in the most uncomfortable of ways. 

The two men were standing with their arms around one another’s waist, smiling joyfully in some shared secret, before turning to each other with soft eyes, and leaning in with a gentle press of lips. 

A scrawling hand had written in a tight but looping script by the bottom right corner, “_ Florence, 1903 _”.

He couldn’t look away from the shy smile on the unknown man’s face, the way he blushed and down cast his eyes just before leaning in and allowing himself to be kissed by Doge in such a public place. 

Remus felt oddly sweaty and a little out of breath and why was his face so hot? He didn’t know how long he had stood there with the ringing in his ears, staring holes into the image, but when Doge’s voice broke the deafening silence Remus started so hard he nearly dropped the picture in his fumbling. 

“Everything alright, Mr. Lupin?” He asked, coming closer, his eyes peering kindly down at the photo in Remus’s fidgeting fingers. 

“Yes,” He squeaked, “everything’s fine, professor.”

“Ah, yes,” Doge smiled, his eyes, already full of the wrinkles of age, crinkling even further as the fondness of the memory crossed his features. Nostalgia laced his voice, and he took the photo from Remus’s fumbling hands, setting it upon the newly cleaned shelf with decided care, “young love, I suppose. It happens to the best of us.”

Remus didn’t know what to say to that pronouncement because he was still sweating and nauseous and he suddenly couldn’t stand the kind and open look on his professor’s face. 

Doge, unbeknownst to whatever was happening to his student, smiled absently and began humming again, walking away to his desk, swaying to the music of another time and place, lost in his own fond recollections and memories. And Remus was left there to try and focus on the rest of his task, wondering as he went why the image shocked him so much. It’s not as if he didn’t know some men were— _ like that _. But it was something else entirely to see it there in front of him. Someone he knew personally, not some nameless shameful pariah that people whispered about.

Eventually, much to Remus’s relief and odd frustration, Doge called Remus away for a tea break, and he reluctantly tore his gaze away from the two kissing boys. 

He spent the rest of his detention highly distracted, as Doge filled Remus in on some of his travels, but never once mentioning this mysterious man that he had kissed so brazenly. Remus’s mind spun in endlessly pointless circuits. Were Doge and the mysterious man dating? Could men do that, even? Could boys date other boys? Did they just kiss? Could they do other things together? Or were they just being friendly? Were they still together? If not, then what happened to the other man? What did Doge mean when he said, “young love?” 

Every time his mind went there, he began to sweat and feel sick, twice spilling his tea and once dropping a whole ginger crisp onto the floor while Doge went on about the Caspian Runan-shah he met once on his adventures. And Remus tried to pay attention, he really did, but he just couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of two friends— two boys— kissing. 

Surely, that wasn’t normal, he thought as his thumb found the scar by his wrist and he picked it, allowing his thoughts to swallow him. Friends didn’t kiss like that. Friends didn’t look at one another with ill disguised longing. 

And every time he tried to think of something new, his mind supplied him with a memory or two, framed in a slightly new light. A memory he had of James undressing after practice one night, of how Remus felt flush and warm and awkward and yet intrigued by how toned he was. It was the same uncomfortable flush he felt when he overheard his friends talking about girls and he couldn’t figure out the correlation.

Another memory of the previous summer at the ice cream parlour, an older boy had walked in, long curly hair in a leather jacket and his arm slung around a girl who’s face he couldn’t recall, and Remus couldn’t help feeling a bit clammy thinking about how much he liked the boy’s jacket and tight jeans. Or... perhaps it wasn’t just the outfit. 

No. Remus didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t. That wasn’t normal. That was predatory of him, sleeping in a room with three other boys. It was wrong. It was bad enough he was a werewolf amongst decent, normal people. He was already a wolf in sheep’s clothing, he couldn’t also— no. He wondered frantically if perhaps it was a side effect of being a werewolf and if the horrors of his condition would only deepen with time. 

He barely registered saying a hasty goodbye to Doge at the end of his detention, just after lunch. He dropped his duster and fled the classroom, racing to get to his dorm, desperate for some normalcy, for comfort. 

Racing up the steps to the tower, he was cataloguing every girl in their year, and trying to list all of the reasons he thought they were pretty to combat any thoughts about other boys, before he threw the door open to their room. Crossing the threshold he tore off his robes, and yanked hard at his tie, feeling suffocated and taking deep gulping breaths. 

It was at this precise, exact moment, that Sirius Orion Black, very unhelpfully, but very much in character, walked out of the bathroom. Shirtless, of course. Clearly having just gotten back from flying, if the state of his hair was anything to go by.

Remus let out an honest to god groan of horror and confusion, heat flooding his face, and Sirius looked at him as if he sprouted an extra head. He choked on his tongue with wide eyes and turned around, fleeing the dorm, leaving his robes on the floor in the doorway.

“Lupin, what the fuck?” Sirius’s voice echoed after him, but he didn’t stop running. He couldn’t or his thoughts and rationality might catch up with him. 

“What was the point of waking me up, then?” Grumbled the fat lady as Remus threw open the portrait hole and tore off running full speed. 

He wasn’t really sure why he was running or where, but at this point it was all he felt like he could do without bursting into flames or vomiting all over himself. 

______________

“Ah, yes, what a lovely day for a stroll. Weather’s just balmy, innit?” Sirius’s voice was bright and thick with sarcasm as he strode through the snow, following the tracks Remus had made in his flight. He tossed Remus a sweater, his favourite maroon and cable knit one, to where he sat crouched in the snow at the base of the bowtruckle-infested elm. Remus caught it with numb fingers and clumsily pulled it over his head. Trying to conceal the redness of his eyes in the dying light, hoping it wasn’t too obvious how much he was shivering. 

“Just trying to clear my head.” Remus offered weakly, pathetically, sniffing hard. 

“And? Is it cleared? Or did you freeze it solid?” 

Remus snorted thickly, shrugging. 

Sirius sighed heavily, his thick winter cloak trailing loftily in the freshly disturbed snow in his wake as he made his way over to Remus, sliding similarly down the trunk of the great elm, boots kicked out in front of him. He took a moment to pull the soft leather gloves from his fingers, slipping the fur-lined wrists over his palms before handing them to Remus, waving at him irritably, or maybe fondly, when Remus hesitated before putting them on. 

“Come on then Lupin, you’ve got not a wisp of insulation on those bones, here, take the thermos, while you’re at it,” Sirius passed him a piping hot thermos from beneath his great cloak, “there we are. Better, isn’t it?” Sirius, with some suspicious clanking, also pulled two enamel mugs from beneath the rather deeper folds of his cloak. 

He didn’t look irritated, really. His cheeks were bright red in the cold and it made his grey eyes all the more clear, and it really showed when he gave Remus the softest and smallest of crooked grins, his hair falling about his face in soft curls. 

Remus lifted an eyebrow in question. 

“Don’t look so surprised, Lupin. If there’s anything I’ve learned after all these years, it’s that one can’t go stomping off in a snit for a bit of a tantrum without a few necessities.” He spun open the top of the thermos, giving Remus the enamel mugs to hold while he poured. 

“Remember in first year? Got lost in the forest after my father came by? Learned early, I did. Can’t have a winter wander without a few things to carry you through the night.” Steam followed the milky, chocolaty liquid that poured forth from the thermos, the air filling with mouth-watering smells. Remus’s stomach growled noisily. 

Sirius smiled and spun the top back on the thermos, taking the darker mug for himself. “When you didn’t come back after an hour, I figured the cocoa was necessary.” 

“You’re not wrong.” Remus said, wrapping his newly gloved fingers around the warmth of the cup. It smelled like comfort and home and all the friendliness between them. 

“I hardly ever am.” Sirius was leaning back against the tree, the mug held halfway to his lips. He looked smug. But, it wasn’t nearly as infuriating now as it normally was. 

“Of course not.” Remus welcomed the warmth that seeped into his bones. He had been sitting beneath the chattering boughs of scuttling bowtruckles, revisiting and turning over memories in his mind.

He had been thinking about his supervisor at the ice cream parlour on the main road he worked at over the summer. How, one evening, he had come in from the hazy humid dusk that had been settling along the little lane, laughing with a cut lip. How he had bragged about it to Remus and the other older boy he worked with, “worth it to chase off a couple of shirt lifters, yeah?” He had said. Remus hadn’t known how to respond, he just went back to cleaning the tables as the two boys laughed between themselves. 

Another memory had resurfaced, one of his own mum, who had shielded his eyes and muttered with disgust, at the sight of a group of men on the train one night coming back from London. The men were in feather boas and sparkling glasses, cropped shirts and wearing lipstick. They’d been joyous and glamorous and entirely unafraid. 

His mum had gripped his arm unusually hard and nearly dragged him from the train car. “Don’t know what they’re thinking, coming around decent people all dolled up like that, it ain’t right. Remus, look away, come along, now.”

Remus’s eyes filled with tears as he stared down into his steaming cocoa and sniffed hard. He didn't know why the memory hurt him so sharply, now, suddenly, after all this time. But there was something about seeing the kind look in Doge’s eyes in that photograph and the sheepish sweetness of the other boy that twisted Remus’s insides and made him feel an aching shame at his mum’s memory. 

“Go on, Lupin.” Sirius settled back against the tree and sipped at his cocoa, a small silence accompanying the drift of the sun down below the horizon, and the muffled world of the forest under snow. 

“Do you think it’s wrong, you know, when,” Remus took another sip of the cocoa and shifted uncomfortably, trying to figure out what he wanted to say. What he wanted to ask. “When two people, but two people, not a guy and a girl, but maybe, a guy and a guy. When they, you know, like each other.” Remus could feel his palms sweating in the leather gloves, and he didn’t dare look up at Sirius, who hadn’t moved, and who was letting the quiet forest swallow them both. 

Remus regretted asking, and was just considering burying himself alive or walking into the lake with his pockets full of stones when Sirius decided to lend his voice to the stillness. 

“What do you mean wrong?” Sirius had turned toward Remus without his realising, and his brow was furrowed and his eyes were impossibly grey and his ungloved hands weren’t red from the cold at all, which also seemed impossible. 

“Like, you know, immoral.” Remus said, shrugging, hating himself intensely. He turned away again as he answered, trying instead to focus on anything else. But there was nothing, not really, just the growing dark between the birch trees, half buried in snow. 

Sirius snorted, and Remus whipped his head back around to look at him so quickly he cricked his neck, which then made him spill some of his cocoa. 

“What the fuck would I know about what’s immoral, Moons.” Sirius brought his hand up to run it through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He waved his wand and the spilled cocoa vanished, Remus’s clothes newly warm and dry. It was unnerving how he could just fix the past like that, one wave, not even while he was concentrating. Like he could erase history at his leisure. 

Remus had so many thoughts at once he missed half of what Sirius was saying, coming to only in the middle of his next thought. 

“... love is what it is, Lupin. You can’t make anyone feel any way but the way they feel. No use trying to pretend it’s anything otherwise.” Sirius was smiling at him in a resigned and hopeless kind of way, but he didn’t say anything else, and the quiet returned to the small clearing beneath the singular elm in the sea of birches. 

“You going to tell me you like boys now, Lupin? Because I won’t mind. I don’t think any of us, would, you know. I can’t imagine James liking you any less and Peter’d probably just write you a personals ad for any young bloke in Hogsmeade who’d be willing to take you on a nice, respectable date at Puddifoot’s.” 

Remus laughed a startled sound, the thought of his friend’s kindness sweet and sharp and still somehow a little painful and his eyes teared up again, much to his continued horror. 

“I don’t know, Sirius. I honestly just don’t know.”

“I don’t know if we’re expected to know much about it, Lupin. We’re just kids ourselves, after all.” 

After that they were quiet and Sirius didn’t ask anymore questions about why Remus had run fleeing into the snow, and Remus didn't offer up any more of the hundreds of swirling worries ricocheting around his mind. 

They finished their cocoa, and at Sirius’s behest, they eventually made their way back to the castle where Remus got under the covers of his maroon duvet and hid there until morning. 

______________

_ January 1, 1974 _

Remus Lupin was lying in bed, having (another) small crisis. He was tossing and turning to the snores of Sirius on the other side of the room, who slept peacefully, completely unawares of the churning thoughts and feelings of his friend.

He was replaying a conversation, over and over again, in his mind. Turning it over, letting it consume him in its confusion. The conversation in question, the one newly responsible for this crisis, and maybe a few more after this, happened early on New Year's Day, Sirius having just convinced Remus to join him in the common room for a game of cards and a bit of a New Year’s celebration. 

Taking advantage of the fact that all the teachers were having their own New Years party, and that Minnie would be less inclined to keep track of them, Remus had agreed, with only minor trepidation and a solemn promise from Sirius that they'd be in bed shortly after midnight. Though, in retrospect, Remus should know by now that those kinds of promises, from Sirius in particular, solemn or not, were not worth much. Midnight was more of a concept than a specific time to Sirius Black, really. 

Sprawled out on the carpet before the common room fire, in their slippers and pyjamas, Sirius produced a flask from deep within his robes and shoved it into Remus’s surprised hands. 

“Happy New Years,” he said around the cigarette he’d fished from his other pocket, watching and waiting for the flame from his wand to ignite the end of it. 

The flask was heavy and cold and he tried to give it back to Sirius, but the look on his face told him that today was not a day to argue. Instead, he lifted the cool metal to his mouth and took a sip. 

The fire whiskey was strong and dry and burned all the way down his throat. The wolf quivered with disapproval as Remus failed to repress a shudder. 

They swapped the flask and the cigarette back and forth for long minutes until Remus finally asked, coughing and sputtering around the nearly finished cigarette, “I thought we were playing cards?” 

Sirius barked a laugh, loud and clear and full of endearment. “Not one for fire whiskey?”

“Not particularly, no,” Remus said meekly and Sirius pulled out a pack of old and worn playing cards from his robes.

“What else are you hiding in there?” Remus asked in mild exasperation to which Sirius only laughed and winked before shuffling the deck of cards. 

After losing several games of potioneer’s sevens, and listening to all the reasons Sirius loved to play Quidditch, the fire whiskey and clove had gotten to Remus’s head and he was feeling loose and wobbly. 

At some point during an especially frustrating round, Sirius’s iterations of Quidditch turned into glowing praise of Gideon and his capabilities as a beater. For some reason, this nettled Remus, making him feel prickly and inadequate. And, while Sirius was trying to explain how they flew like a single entity, with great speed and strength, practically reading each other’s mind, Remus’s mouth, much to his brain’s horror, blurted, “Gideon’s quite fit”.

Unfazed, Sirius boomed, “Well, of course he is! He’s a beater!” And, lifting the sleeve of his satin monogrammed robe, he exposed his own thin, brawny arm, flexing it for dramatic effect, saying, “And, so am I! Look at this! I could knock a trolls head into next week!”

Remus, in his confused and befuddled state just stared at Sirius and his stupid arm and let out a weak laugh. 

Sirius, observing this with a shrewd look, lowered his sleeve to his proper and decent place and asked, “What’s going on with you, anyway? You’ve been weird the last few days. Did something happen in detention?”

“No,” Remus said, too quickly, his mind slow and fuzzy, looking anywhere but Sirius. 

“Sure,” Said Sirius, watching him closely. “Whatever you say.”

Sirius began to deal another hand, and Remus rubbed the healing scar beneath his sleeve harder than he should, but the booze taking the edge off the pain and making him a bit clumsy. 

“It’s just that—” Remus started as Sirius batted his hand away from his elbow. He stopped abruptly, rubbing his face, not knowing how to say what he wanted to say. 

“It’s just what?”

“Boys—”

“Are we talking about boys again?” Sirius asked with a good effort at repressing a knowing smile, picking up his hand and rearranging the cards. 

Remus had not picked up his hand yet, he was too busy fidgeting, searching for the right words.

“Do you know any gay people?” Remus finally asked, a bit rushed and breathless. 

Sirius looked up, unfazed and glum. “I’m sure happy people exist out there somewhere, Remus.”

“What? No, I mean— like, gay. Gay, gay. Queer people, or whatever.”

“Oh—” Sirius said, with a bit of a surprised look on his face. “I mean, does it matter?”

“I don’t know.” Remus said truthfully, his face a flaming phoenix red.

“Do you?”

“I don’t know.” He said again, his voice taking on an almost desperate note.

Sirius nodded and was quiet for a while, arranging the cards in his hands, his half burnt cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth. He seemed to be choosing his words.

“It’s a complicated topic, in pureblood families.” He offered, carefully. “We’re taught that to be gay, or to have specific proclivities, is fine, it’s whatever. But, if you’re an heir to a family name, there are expectations of you, regardless.”

Remus was a bit surprised by the answer, he hadn’t considered how the wizarding world viewed gayness. All he knew was that his gran had made a low disparaging noise once and raved about the sanctity of marriage when he was about seven after a law passed in the muggle world saying it was legal for gay men to “cavort in secret”. He hadn’t really known what she was talking about at the time, but now he was starting to understand quite a lot in hindsight.

“What kind of expectations?” Remus asked, finally picking up his hand and rearranging the cards. He felt weirdly nervous. 

Sirius huffed thoughtfully before picking up a card from the deck on the table and discarding a two of clubs. “Like, Walburga always told me it didn't matter who I wanted to bed, but I also had to carry on the family name and bear her grandchildren.” 

Remus took the two of clubs and discarded a ten of hearts, waiting to hear more to this uncomfortable pronouncement. 

“That’s why we have arranged marriages, too.” Sirius continued, “And, why traditions and gatherings and appearances are so important. The politics are complicated.” His face was carefully blank as he discarded an eight of hearts.

“You have arranged marriages?” Remus asked, his mind now reeling in many directions. 

“What I’m saying is,” Sirius pushed, suddenly bitter, “it doesn’t matter if someones gay or not, because you don’t get to make your own decisions in that world, anyway.” 

The room fell quiet but for the crackling of the fire and the occasional flick of a card. 

Remus nodded his head, without really understanding. “Muggles usually care quite a lot if someone is gay. They’ve made laws about it.” He picked up a four of diamonds. 

“I know.” Sirius said, without looking at him. “We’re told all about how muggles have killed a maimed their own for being different, for doing certain things. It’s one of the ways they try to make us afraid.”

“Are you afraid? Of muggles?” It felt like a dangerous question he was asking. He knew how Peter and James felt about muggle rights, with their loud declarations, but Sirius always managed to be uncharacteristically quiet during their galant tirades, choosing rather to aim his energy at hating Severus and his brother’s friends’, but never at denouncing the bigotry they supported. 

Sirius shifted uncomfortably as he snubbed out the dying embers of his last cigarette in the crystal ashtray. “I’m less afraid of the worst of them than I am of summer holidays with Walburga.”

Remus considered this as he rearranged his cards to accommodate the six of diamonds he picked up. “She sounds like a horror, to be honest.” 

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” Sirius huffed, laying down a full run of four and two sets of three. 

“God dammit, Black,” Remus griped as he threw his hand down onto the table, accepting his umpteenth defeat of the evening. 

“Anyway,” Sirius continued, gathering the cards for another deal, “why are you so worried about gay people? You’re not one of those awful muggleborns that cares terribly, are you? Don’t you remember that gossiping portrait telling us about boys kissing in the halls. It's not that unheard of.”

Remus felt a fresh flush of some kind of emotion he couldn’t identify as he looked up at Sirius. “I know, I know. I know it happens, I just—” he rubbed his eyes hard, “in detention, I saw a picture of Doge, when he was younger— kissing another boy. I’d never actually seen it before. I’d never really thought about it.”

He felt a little nauseous and wished he hadn't drunk so much. His head was beginning to swim a bit. 

Sirius shrugged. “Doge wasn’t a sacred twenty-eight, so really, he could do whatever he wanted, he didn't have any kind of legacy to uphold.”

Remus couldn't believe that Sirius’s only commentary on their teacher being gay was about his status within the wizarding world.

“So, it’s okay, then— that he’s gay. That he likes men.” Remus asked cautiously. 

“Don’t see why not, Lupin, I told you this before,” he said with a big stretch and yawn, seemingly profoundly unconcerned. “People like all sorts, it’s not really my business. I’m knackered, though, we should call it a night.”

And off they went, stumbling slightly back to their dorm. Remus laid in his bed in the dark and stillness of early morning for hours, his head spinning, replaying their conversation, over and over, again. Wondering as he did so why it bothered him so much. 

_______________

Remus floated by in a bit of a fog until the rest of the school returned from the holiday, and even feigned a cold to avoid his detentions with Doge. He wanted to say that, for once in his life, his transformations were coming in handy, giving him a solid excuse to miss detention, but he couldn't help but notice the rising tide of claustrophobic tension that had crept up on him, gripping him tighter with every moon.

James had greeted them with the enthusiasm of a rogue bludger, bowling into Sirius in the middle of the common room, initiating a furious wrestling match in which several people had to jump out of the way. Peter, in his usual kindness, had produced a box of chocolate frogs to share with Remus as they settled by the fire and waited for the wrestling match to end. Reading to Peter the accolades of the squib Archemedes, he was distracted by Lily and Marlene stumbling into the common room through the portrait hole, giggling madly and clutching at one another. 

“Evans!” James greeted from the floor, where he was red faced and sweaty with Sirius’s torso trapped between his thighs. 

Lily rolled her eyes so hard they were in danger of falling out of her head, and Remus didn’t catch what she said in return as he was far too distracted by Marlene. She looked _ different _. Her hair— it was short. Her curly brown frizz that usually fell messily around her shoulders and held back with a thick headband, was cropped close to her head— and did she always wear muggle jeans with loose flannels? 

Remus realised with an embarrassing flush that she looked _ nice _. 

He had never noticed before. 

“Hi Remus, Peter,” she greeted shyly, adjusting the cuffs of her sleeves when she noticed him staring. 

Remus tried to say hello back but all that came out was a weird rasping noise that Peter mistook for a choking sound and proceeded to thump him on the back with far too much gusto. 

Wincing and sputtering, his eyes watering, he watched Marlene and Lily laugh to each other and walk off, Marlene casting furtive glances back towards them over her shoulder. 

“You alright, mate?” Peter asked, his hand ready to resume smacking.

“Fine, Peter, thanks,” Remus muttered, as Sirius won the upper hand and pushed James’s face into the rug with a yell of victory. He was completely bewildered by this new feeling blooming in his chest at the sight of a Marlene with short hair, right beside the one that quickened at the thought of boys kissing, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what to do with either of them. But, perhaps, he thought, it didn't matter much, because the four of them were back together and it was high time for getting up to no good. 


	15. Laguz

Their reunion after the Christmas holiday was fast and bright, and quickly snowballed into the four of them swept back into the rapidly accelerating pace of the second term. Peter had a near breakdown in the first week of February, going to absolute pieces in Transfiguration when they moved swiftly on to slightly larger mammals, leaving the apparently comfortable world of mice and other small rodents behind. 

All the cats Peter transfigured with the _ felifors _ spell were wildly unhinged, hissing and spitting and irreparably aggressive from the moment they sprung into being. Oddly enough, when they would invariably attack poor Peter, claws always so fastidiously sharp even while their fur was missing in patches and sometimes they'd lack an eye or an ear, Sirius would always find himself jumping directly into the fray. It was now common to see both of the boys covered in bloody scratch marks by the end of their lesson. 

The cats Sirius very reluctantly transfigured always had a bit of mangey appearance, as though they’d spent long months in a hostile alleyway behind a vegan restaurant. Sometimes, they even came equipped with fleas. None of them seemed remotely interested in remaining in the classroom, and it was common that the moment they made their appearance, they’d streak from the desk to the floor and out into the corridor beyond, long lost to the unknown world of cats within the castle. 

James, on the other hand, had the very opposite and distinctly unnerving problem of all of the cats he attempted to spin into life being completely frozen in affect and being. They simply stared, glassy eyed, as if taxidermied. Only Lupin seemed to have moderate luck with them, and the cats he summoned forth from old earthenware pots would wind around his ankles, purring madly, tails held loftily in the air. Remus, despite his success, appeared supremely disconcerted in these moments, and while he made small efforts to pat the tabbies and the calicos, it was always with so much reserved hesitation. Most often, he simply ignored them. 

With the building of their second term, no longer was Sirius left bored while Professors droned on about spellwork he'd been accustomed to since toddlerhood, no. In fact, in all of his classes, Sirius found himself immersed in far more complex magic than he’d even anticipated, even becoming curious about some of the subjects at hand. Professor Vector, in particular, kept him sharp and hungry, quill quick over crisp parchment, his copy of _ Numerology and Grammatica _ a constant weight in his leather satchel, and "by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa's dusty beard!" a constant turn of phrase while he muttered to himself, his yew wand making complicated movements in the corner of the library that was illuminated just so by perfect afternoon sunlight. 

It wasn't a secret between the four of them that Sirius had rapidly become obsessed with the idea of spell creation (and little did James and Peter realise at the time, spell destruction, though Remus remained quietly and inconsequentially in the know). He was now, more than ever before, quick to levitate Agrippa's work and Rosana Amorim's ever useful _ Spellman's Syllabary _into his satchel and make himself scarce until the small hours of the morning, brow still creased and runes sometimes inked across his forearms, evident of how he'd leaned himself across parchment that had yet to dry. 

It was on Wednesday afternoon that the four boys, none of them enrolled in Divination, could be found sprawled out beneath the great arching window of the west end of the library, cushions scattered across the floor, books, open to their required pages, stacked across each other. 

"Only Wednesday and the work we've been assigned is enough for the next three months." James griped into the crook of his arm, sprawled across the ancient carpet that coated the old stone of the turret. "I can't tell which I'm dreading more, Binn's essay on the merwars of 1215 or old Sluggie's undetectable poisons assignment." He flipped closed Bagshot's _ A History of Magic _ and gazed instead upon Arsenius Jigger's _ Magical Drafts and Potions._ He oscillated between the two for several long moments, obviously miserable about both prospects. 

"Personally, I'm quite enjoying the fact that Doge assigned you all three scrolls on werewolf identification and threat management." Remus's voice was bitterly amused, and came from deep within the plush armchair closest to the looming stacks of books. They were closest to the magical creatures section of the library, and at least four encyclopaedic texts on beasts and beings lay about their small kingdom of books, all of which they'd been resolutely ignoring. "Mostly, I'm just glad he didn't have the audacity to make me write one, too. I've been relegated to two scrolls on banishing boggarts." Remus flipped his cypress wand idly and _ Nocturnal Beasts _ snapped shut by his feet. 

"How can they do this to us." Peter groaned from the pile of cushions across from James, the _ Standard Book of Spells Grade Three _ open in his lap. He'd been attempting cheering charms, on Flitwick's instruction, but James hadn't as much as smiled in the past hour. He was woefully bad at them. 

The three of them paused in their whinging to look up to Sirius, who'd tucked himself away on the window ledge, scraps of parchment across his lap and hair tied up in a tight bun. He was deep in concentration, twirling his yew wand between his fingers, reading and re-reading a passage before him, mouthing the words to himself. 

"Oi, Black," James lifted his head from his arm and raised an eyebrow at his friend, who hadn't seemed to notice anyone calling his name. 

"Shhh." Came a sharp hiss from Madame Pince, who'd appeared to re-shelve several books on hippogriff husbandry, and who'd lingered to glare rather vehemently at the four of them for the indelicate way they had decorated the small sunlit corner of the library with open books, spines splayed. 

James mouthed a small apology, Remus snickering behind his mug of tea. Peter broke the relative silence with a squeaky "_animaequiores_", swirling his black walnut wand rather inventively, which did absolutely nothing to improve anyone's mood. 

Sirius paused in his mutterings, his focus drawn the frozen lake in the distance. There was still a thick blanket of snow across most of the grounds, but the sky was a grey that didn't threaten more inclement weather, the wind calm for the first time in a fortnight. A darkness was pullings slowly and gently across the arc of the sky, and the shadows of the great trees that lined the forest were running long across the snow. He wondered for a brief moment how the giant squid survived the cold beneath the ice, how it spent the winter months, alone and in the dark still world below. If it even noticed the shifting from day into night. 

He breathed heavily against the pane of glass just beyond his resting shoulder, fogging the window thoroughly. He took a moment to consider the great creature, dragging a finger through the fog to draw laguz. 

"Sending blessings?" Remus's voice was soft by his side, and Sirius suppressed the surprise of his friend's closeness. 

"Just dreams, I think." Sirius watched the fogged rune fade, replaced by his own reflection, and Remus's smirk above his shoulder. 

"Come on, Sirius." Remus nudged him gently. "The others have already left for dinner. And we've got Astronomy tonight." 

Sirius turned to see the empty library, many of the books repacked or stacked neatly in corners. The lights were dim and yellowed. Hours had passed without him even realising. 

"Who's got time for more stars." He mused, gathering his errant parchment and books back into his leather satchel, tossing his dark robes over his arm rather than replacing them over his white button-down. 

Remus chortled to himself, gazing fondly on his friend. "You are the limit, Black." 

“Me? No, just a light in the sky.” Sirius adjusted his rolled sleeves. “Night Irma.” He lifted a hand at Madam Pince, who’d been glaring around the shelves devoted to demons, demiguise and dwarves, her arms laden with thick tomes, yet to be shelved.

At dinner, the four of them sat between the Prewett twins and Marlene, Lily, Dorcas and Mary, their leonine counterparts in the third year. Remus caught a rolled up bit of newsprint from Claudia over brussel sprouts and green beans, but the conversation didn't turn political until James caught sight of the headlines across the folded back page, midway through the cullen skink that had appeared in great cast iron tureens while Remus was busy with the Arts and Culture section. 

BLACKS BACK IN MINISTRY BUSINESS lay bold and accusatory over a very recognisable photo of Sirius's father, stepping neatly out of a growler, top hat stiff and brisk, cloak of crushed black velvet over deep green formal robes, buttons of carved ivory across his doublet. His expression was severe, but a hint of a predatory grin seemed to lurk at the corners of his mouth. 

James reached across the table and lifted the paper from where it was perilously close to dipping into Remus’s large bowl of soup. “Let’s see it, Lupin.” 

James pulled the page free and refolded it beside his still steaming cullen skink, pushing soup spoons aside. Sirius looked apprehensively on, not sure if he wanted even more insight into the Black family than he already had. 

James, intent on the truth, began reading aloud.

_ Orion Arcturus Black, pictured above, has been seen in and out of the ministry of magic every day this month. Previously thought to be in relation to the trial of Edmund Burkitt-Howard, a muggle accused of murdering witch Helena Twilftit of Kent, it is now confirmed by an inside source that he has, in fact, been providing “consultancy services” to the Department of International Magical Cooperation and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. _

_ The youngest patriarch of the family Black's involvement seems to be centered on the acquisition of foreign trade agreements with the French Bureau de Magie de Guerre for contracts relating to the use of more severe muggle repelling charms and other magical solutions to strengthen the statute of secrecy, a currently widely debated topic within the Wizengamot, with two opposing factions clearly developing over the previous six months. _

_ On one side, magical peoples have been advocating for greater protection and consider active muggle management with wizarding wellbeing paramount a priority of the government. In opposition, staunchly led by such charismatic, young politicians as squib Gloria Figg of the Committee for Equitable Access, are voicing concern for muggle rights and greater integration into the magical community, including a sharing of magical resources and knowledge. New legislation governing the use of force, memory modification and detention of muggles who are a threat to the wizarding community has also recently been tabled before the Wizengamot for consideration, in a direct contest to the white papers published by Miss Figg at the start of last year. _

_ Orion Arcturus Black, resident of London, refused to comment on “the sensitive and confidential nature of his business dealings,” but reassured reporters that “all of [his] actions were in support of protecting wizards everywhere from the danger of exposure to the muggle population, as is in keeping with current laws and governmental aims.” _

_ Monsieur Black is also a known financial contributor to the lobbying groups that have pushed for the widening of Ministry powers in this regard, and has openly voiced support for the controversial appointment of Parker Fawley to a leading position on the Committee for the Preservation of Magical Culture within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Fawley has been quoted previously in this publication at length regarding his views, including his open stance that wizardkind is intrinsically superior to muggles, and that muggleborn witches and wizards are not well adapted for life within the magical community. In his words, “integration was our forefathers greatest mistake.” _

_ These views, while shocking to some, have resonated deeply with many of the oldest and most prominent wizarding families, those that have been deeply entrenched in politics and government since the creation of the Ministry of Magic. Fawley has garnered significant popular support, and it is clear that the Black family has embraced this new turn in the political discourse. _

“What absolute shite, Sirius. I knew your family were Slytherins, but I didn’t think they were wrapped up in all this blood purity nonsense. How come you never mention it?” James’s brow was deeply furrowed, real concern across his face. 

“Not really a pleasant topic of conversation, that lot.” Sirius said, having lost all of his appetite and feeling unusually uncomfortable with the number of his friends now looking to him. He kept his eyes on the thick yellow soup before him. He could feel Lily, Marlene, Mary and Dorcas all watching him. Lily and Mary were both muggle born. 

“You’re not kidding,” James went on, “I’m glad they mentioned Gloria Figg though, my dad’s been supporting her for ages - he says she’ll make a great Minister for Magic one day, squib or not.” 

“How can a squib be Minister for Magic?” Peter, who’d spilled soup across his herbology textbook, was attempting to clean it with a cloth serviette. 

“That’s not on, Pete. What do you mean how? She’s clever as Rowena that one. And what would she need magic for? To be Minister you need brains, not fancy charmwork.” James sat proudly for a moment.

“I’m sure she’ll be a treat.” Sirius said, swinging a leg over the bench and standing, unsure of why or where he was headed. He was too uncomfortable with how close his friends were coming to so many uncomfortable truths he carried about. Things wrapped up in blood and surnames. All the reasons why a squib would never hold any office of importance. 

A mental image of Nicabar Carrow and Rhys Fawley toasting goblets over the back of an imperiused muggle crawling between them came, uninvited, into his mind. The disgusting haddock soup rose horribly up from his gut, sweat prickling uncomfortably along his skin. Thoughts of the Greengrass brothers, Marcellus and Cassius, laughing horribly over the votes they’d miscounted, and his own horrible forefathers, ruddied, pockmarked cheeks and sharp, yellow teeth cackling away the idea that St. Mungos could care for anyone without magic. Sirius strode away down the space between house tables, trying not to think of the words at his back. 

“He’s a bigot, too, isn’t it? Just too much of a coward to say it in front of us.” It was Lily’s voice, so very hurt. Disappointed. Angry. 

He fought the urge to break into a run. At the Slytherin table across the hall he could see Regulus and that horrid little git, Bartemius, pouring over the same issue of the Daily Prophet, their little faces proud rather than ashamed. Quinton Mulciber was speaking quickly and enthusiastically over his shoulder. Evan Rosier nodding and snickering along beside him. 

He left the great hall, slipped through the front doors, and found himself back out on the snow covered grounds. It was too dark to go fly, and too packed with snow to walk down to the lakeshore or forest. He let the cold wash over him a moment, unbuttoning the top of shirt, the collar of which had become unusually tight. 

Alone for a few moments, he wondered what had happened to Cadmus Yaxley. He hadn’t seen him return after the winter holidays, and what he wouldn’t give to share a flask and a few fears with him. The only one who seemed to get it. Who knew what it was like. A lion and an eagle amongst snakes. 

______________

As the month finally rolled forward into March, Minerva McGonagall eventually appeared to become less interested in discipline, and instead proclaimed a renewed interest in remedial Quidditch and the rather sorry state of her own house team. In the second week, after a particularly hellish transfiguration lesson in which only Remus (to everyone’s great shock and surprise) managed to successfully do… anything, she bade Sirius and James stay behind, Sirius nursing quite a nasty bite from one of the transfigured cats. 

“Well, boys, seems we have a match coming up.” She cleared her throat. “Ravenclaw.” She said all of this with her glasses slipped down to the end of her nose, grading papers, not even looking up at the two of them, cowed before her desk. Her quill made sharp and exact noises along the parchment before her. “Are you fit to compete?”

“Always, professor!” James nearly choked getting the words out. His excitement was palpable, and it seemed like he was struggling to remain standing in the same spot, feet specifically anchored to the stone floor below.

“Fighting fit.” Sirius said it with a grin, and it was only then that she looked up, eyes narrowed and dagger-like above the glinting wire rim. “Professor.” He added robustly, now grinning. 

“Well then. Best get practicing.” She dipped her quill in the pot of dark green ink before her. James and Sirius paused a moment before turning and gathering their books, very quietly, almost in disbelief. 

In the hallway, their whoops and shouts could be heard ricocheting about the cold stone, and Mrs. Norris could be heard hissing her displeasure from behind the iron ankles of a suit of armour. But it didn’t matter, not now, nothing mattered really. James and Sirius, back on the team. Reunited. They sprinted down the shifting stairways to the great hall, eager for lunch and the opportunity to report their reinstatement to the Prewett twins and Longbottom, the chasers and the beaters, whole again. 

That night, James and Sirius flew with their team. Gideon and Sirius moved like a singular entity, often shoulder to shoulder, their smiles wide and bright in the early dark of late winter, the cold wind streaking across mirrored cheekbones. There was something primal about the way they hunted together, hungry and glorious and unafraid, and by the time their ice-tipped boots hit the stiff grass, they were laughing together, wild and brilliant and consuming. James landed in a roll beside them, Longbottom and Fabian following suit, the quaffle tucked beneath Frank’s arm and joy seeming to roll off of him in waves. 

Danae and Pepper alighted with far more grace but just as much illuminated the in fiery glow of their team, ignited in the dark. 

Not a week later, they won their Ides match against Ravenclaw, Sirius swinging hard and heavy against Shacklebolt, Gideon snarling at Dawlish while their bludger pinged back and forth between them. The four of them were the last to notice Pepper diving for the snitch, broom spinning through the air and tumbling like a stone pulled back to earth, unaware it could fly. The crowd had drawn a collective intake of breath, but Pepper had righted herself, hand aloft around the golden snitch, and the cheers had drowned the pitch in their relief. 

Sirius dragged himself to bed bruised and aching that night, rolling his eyes at Gideon pulling Lyla Spinnet up to the tallest tower and Pepper finally getting an approving look or two from Alena Greer. James had been near insufferable in the afterglow of course, the first to toast his butter beer, basking in victory, giving an all together too long speech thanking his house for the support. He was so saccharine that one, so indebted, so humble in all his pride. Sirius scoffed and threw his blanket back from the sheets he couldn’t wait to crawl into, groaning at the stiffness in his wrist and forearm, a casualty of the day. 

The door to their dormitory creaked open behind him, and Sirius imagined James, all hellbent and defeated, likely spurned in his revelry by a few choice, cutting words from Lily Evans. 

“You’re a fool to think you could chance it. Not in this universe or the next.” 

“You really think so?” The voice was soft and draped itself around the darkened dormitory with a nervous anticipation. Sirius froze, mid unbuttoning of his dark robes. 

He turned to see Dorcas framed in the door, now closed behind her. Dorcas Meadows. Beautiful girl that she was. She had dark eyes and dark skin and soft light curls that hung about her like a halo. 

“Maybe I spoke too soon.” Sirius looked her up and down. She wore muggle jeans with flared hems and a close fitting white tee. She had rolled back the sleeves and tucked up the bottom hem to show her stomach, the shirt design half hidden in favour of the soft expanse of skin. She seemed to steel herself a moment with a deep breath. 

Pulling a wand from her back pocket, Dorcas stepped around James’s discarded quidditch gear and Remus’s pile of books, her hands reaching out toward Sirius, who hadn’t moved, seemingly frozen to the spot, watching her advance. 

“Dorcas, I…” He had been about to caution her, to suggest perhaps it wasn’t the best of plans for them to be sequestered here, alone. For her to be so disarming and bold in a corner of the castle that had only ever known the four marauders and their antics. He was interrupted, however, as she reached him, a dainty hand sliding beneath his, fingers running along his forearm and her wand tip dragging across his pale skin. 

Her healing charm felt like easing into a warm bath, sliding along his skin and soaking into his flesh. It was odd to have such gentle magic wash over him. His healings spells always felt so routine, hurried and without aplomb. Hers felt like a gentle breeze in summer. Like warm rain in the early morning. Like the kind of calm that healed a bit of your soul, perhaps while you weren’t even looking. 

Dorcas smiled, reaching up to rub a thumb across his cheekbone, where a bludger had clipped him quite soundly in the match, he’d just remembered. Where there’d once been the sting and the ache of injury, he now only noticed the softness of her hands, and the way her magic dusted itself across his skin. 

“You didn’t heal them after the match.” She let her hand sweep some of the long hair back behind his ear as she spoke. “Seemed like you forgot.” Dorcas was stepping toward him again, very close now, her trainers between Sirius’s booted feet, her wand back in her jeans back pocket. 

“Ah. Yes. Seems I did.” Sirius was licking his lips, now. Very aware of how soft and kind and lovely she felt. Aware of how close she was, nearly pressed against him now. Unaware of anything else. Everything else. “You’re quite good at that.”

Dorcas smiled up at him, her thumb now running along the edge of his jaw to his chin, seeming to pull him closer still. “Show me what you’re good at.” Seemed to fall from her lips and into his mouth as she leaned up to kiss him. Her lips were tentative at first, but she quickly grew bolder, and she pressed on, standing on her tiptoes, insistent in her desire to kiss him. 

It took a moment for Sirius to realise what was happening. He’d never not been the initiator in a situation like this. He’d never not been the one leaning in for the kiss. Deciding what he wanted and when. He had never had someone else so thoroughly and purposely take the lead. Dorcas had run her fingers back through his hair and grabbed a handful, Sirius pushed back against the old red dresser that held Peter’s clothes. Sirius, in return, slid his hands along her waist and grabbed her ass, her jeans tight and ill adapted to his fumbling desires. He pulled her toward him, hips pressed together, nearly lifting her from her feet. 

It was just then that several things happened all at once. The first was that Sirius heard someone yell “Dorcas! You’d better not have gone in there!” from just outside the door, followed quickly by both James and Peter yelling “Avast!”, followed by several loud thumps and Remus’s quiet “ouch, you prats!” with Lily Evans’s voice, clear as day and shrill as a shrike shrieking that James Potter best move aside this instant. 

The second was that Dorcas jumped and his hand slipped, knocking her wand from the back pocket of her jeans, causing it to clatter to the floor, a jet of light and the sound of glass shattering quick to follow. 

The door to the Gryffindor dormitory burst open, Lily and Marlene falling through the frame, James and Peter quick behind them. Remus, tall and gangly, was in the background still rubbing the back of his head, looking immensely displeased. The soft darkness of the room and the intensity of the kiss was broken instantly, Sirius still pressed against Peter’s dresser with a rather pleased expression on his face, but Dorcas having stepped quickly away, a dark blush flush across her pretty cheeks. 

“Evening, all.” Sirius said, not bothering to do anything about his rather rumpled appearance. “Bit of an odd moment for you all to come breaking down the door. Did something happen? Is there a war on?” 

James snickered and Lily stamped on his foot without a second thought. “Dorcas are you okay? We heard glass breaking!” 

“Of course I’m okay Lily!” Dorcas said into her hands, which had come up to cover her face. “I just came up to talk to Sirius. Why do you have to stick your nose into everybody’s business?” 

Lily seemed to puff up at once. “Please, as if I shouldn’t be worried about anyone alone in a room with Sirius Black.” Lily gave him a scathing stare and marched forward, reaching her hand out to Dorcas. “Come on, let’s go.” 

Sirius huffed, not really sure if he was in any position to argue, but he caught Dorcas’s eye and gave her a sly smile in any case. “Thanks for your charms, anyway.” He said it softly, her blush deepening as she let Lily, who had rolled her eyes, drag her past James, Remus and Peter, Marlene leading the way out of the room and back down the stairs. 

“Can you believe that idiot?” Echoed back up the room, and the four boys remaining burst out laughing, Sirius grinning like a loon, knotting his hair back up in a bun with his wand. 

It was the next morning, Sunday, when a knock at their door woke the four of them again. It was less knocking, actually a bit like banging. None of them moved for several long minutes, while the banging intensified. James finally gave in, his hair sticking up in all kinds of directions as he fumbled about in the half light, grabbing his glasses from the bedside table and stumbling across the room to open the door, shirtless and in old blue and white striped pyjama bottoms. 

Sirius sat up, also shirtless, disinclined to begin his morning so dreadfully early, on a Sunday no less. He yawned and stretched while Lily, in no better mood, fully dressed and looking as though she’d been up for an hour, brushed past James again. “Ew. Put a shirt on.” Sirius heard as she rounded the end of his bed. “You too, Sirius. God, do you all sleep half naked? Disgusting.” She stared daggers at Sirius, who itched his shoulder idly, an eyebrow raised. 

“No body shaming, Evans.” James said from the doorway, very staunch, as half awake and disarmed as he was. 

“Dorcas lost her wand. She thinks it’s in here somewhere.” Lily had her arms crossed and was tapping one foot. “Is it in your bed? Please tell me it’s not in your bed.” 

Sirius smirked. “We didn’t make it to the bed.” James snickered from by the door and Remus could be heard putting a silencing charm around his bed hangings, which were still resolutely drawn. 

Peter drew back his curtains at this point, his grey Puddlemere United shirt only over one arm and his eyes crinkled with sleep. “Think it fell on the floor, maybe rolled under the bed? You’re welcome to check wherever you’d like, Evans.” Sirius waved about aimlessly, still resolutely disinterested in getting up out of bed. 

He could feel the annoyance rolling off of Lily in waves, and she stomped toward him and knelt by the bed to look under it. 

“I’ll help you!” Came James’s voice from across the room, who then gallantly ran to the other side of the room and started checking beneath the dressers, peeking beneath Remus’s bed and stack of books. 

“Gods, Black what the hell have you been keeping under here? It’s an absolute mess. What is this? Broken glass?” Lily sounded like she was pushing aside the remnants of that year’s junk he’d been storing down there. Sirius leaned off the edge of his bed to watch her drag out an old box of fizzing whizbees, which had been collecting dust. James was busy hustling Peter into helping him search. No one dared disturb Remus. 

“Oh, I found it!” She said, relief evident in her voice, but it was quickly followed by a single syllable that made Sirius’s blood run hauntingly cold. He’d just realised what the broken glass must have been from when he heard it. 

“Ouch!” Lily was scrambling up from beneath the bed, holding her hand in front of her, eyebrows furrowed and glaring at the little bloom of blood that had appeared on her ring finger. 

James was by her side in an instant. “Was it the glass, Lils?” You alright? He raised his wand and did a simple healing charm, watching the blood disappear. 

“Must have been.” She said softly, her face softening in a horribly disconcerting way, all too rapidly, as if all the things that made Lily Evans herself were falling away. Sirius’s stomach was full of ice water. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. 

From across the room, Remus ripped his bed hangings back, his scarred face for once, very severe. “Hospital wing. Now.” He said, his eyes meeting Sirius’s from across the room. 

It was just then that Lily fainted. 

_____________

Sunday afternoon seemed to last several long years. James had caught Lily as she fell and ran with her in his arms to the hospital wing, Peter hot on his heels. Remus and Sirius had stayed behind, just an extra moment, as Sirius had jumped from his tangle of sheets and reached beneath his own bed, shards of dark green glass, pieces of the unlucky vintage brushed aside, pulling out the hat pin, a drop of burnished crimson still proud on it’s tip. 

Sirius flipped his wand and repaired the bottle, the pin landing back in the bottom of the bottle with a loud and seemingly pleased chink of porcelain on glass. For a small moment, the smell of red wine lingered in the air. 

“Fuck.” Remus reached for a sweater to pull over his shaggy blonde hair, disheveled and terrified. “Come on, Sirius. Get dressed.” They stared across the unmade beds at each other. “Lily.” 

“If she dies, it’s my fault.” Sirius said it as he grabbed his robes and boots from the chair in the corner. His heart was beating high in his throat and it was hard to breathe. Or swallow. It was hard to think. Remus didn’t say anything. It seemed to take forever for him to tie his laces. 

When they got to the hospital wing, James was pacing outside, exiled by Madam Pomfrey, still shirtless, still in his blue and white striped aged pyjamas. Still barefoot. It was unnerving to see someone so shell shocked. So terrified. So adult and sincere, and yet, so childlike. 

“Sirius what the fuck happened?” James was upon him as soon as he and Remus rounded the corner. It felt strange, dressed in black robes, in boots, austere, his best friend’s skin puckered in the cold, irrelevant in the slipstream of his fear. Peter was sitting on the floor, picking at an errant thread on his sleeve. 

“Sirius.” James was on him, hands curled into the front of his winter robes, dark and formal. “What happened?” He hissed it out, desperate, eyes big and terrified. Sirius had no idea what to say. 

It was Remus who came between them, arm curling around James, pulling him into a hug. “It’s okay James. Madam Pomfrey will sort things out. She’ll be okay.” James’s fingers released the heavy fabric of his robes and he fell into Remus’s hug, hands coming up to clutch at his face and his hair. 

“It’s Evans, Remus. Evans.” The winter sun was just rising high enough to slant her rays through the high windows of the corridor. The castle was deathly quiet. 

“I know, I know.” Remus let James lean into him and fall apart. Sirius watched the two of them, still unsure. Feet cemented to the stone, tongue thick and stupid in his mouth. Peter sniffled in the corner. 

Remus nodded at Sirius over James’s bare shoulder, and Sirius found himself walking through the double doors of the hospital wing, green glass bottle still swinging at his side.   
  
  



	16. The Badger and the Wolf

_ March 3, 1974 _

The silence that followed the thudding of the closing hospital wing doors was peppered with Peter’s sniffling and the deep steadying breaths of James as held fast to Remus’s bony frame. 

“She just fainted, Remus, she was like a rag doll.” He muttered the words out haltingly, his fear palpable and metallic at the back of Remus's tongue, his limbs shaking slightly. “What the fuck was under the bed?”

“Madam Pomfrey will sort her out.” Remus offered softly as he held James firmly to him, stroking his thick black hair like his mum used to do for him after the full moons to make him feel better. He could feel the prickling fear breaking out across his bare skin, beneath Remus's cold hands as uncertainty and the weight of what they witnessed wrapped around them both. 

Peter appeared beside them, holding out the ratty and rather faded terrycloth bathrobe from off his back and draped it gingerly across James's shoulders. It would’ve been a bit gross in any other circumstance, but in the serious atmosphere outside the hospital wing, Peter’s small effort seemed stoic and sweet. 

As the minutes trickled by, slow and thick and heavy, their numbers by the sentry wooden doors increased. First, it was Marlene, still in her slippers, all of a dither from the cryptic story of Lily's departure from the Fat Lady, who had been nearly inconsolable with worry, sending her painted and rather hysterical friend Violet from portrait to portrait toward the hospital wing, desperate for updates. 

Remus had barely finished explaining the story when Dorcas and Alice, both of whom looked as though they’d run from the showers without bothering to dry their sopping hair, in a state of similar harassment from the sentry Gryffindor portrait, came running up the steps, completely out of breath.

James, at their frantic appearance, had regained some semblance of composure, eyes red and mouth a hard line, and he began a secondary stage of his vigil: harried pacing. He walked mechanically back and forth beside the hospital wing doors, barefoot, clutching Peter's too small robe around his tense shoulders. 

The rest of them stood there in the stone corridor outside the stark white of the hospital wing, little lions ill equipped to deal with the heaviness of such circumstances. Marlene, Alice, Dorcas, Peter and Remus all occasionally chanced glances between each other while James marched and muttered under his breath. 

The silence between them was buzzing with tension, and through the white swinging doors to the aseptic white tiled wing beyond, the wolf picked up the hum of voices. Much too quiet for that of uncursed human ears, a stream of confessions was seemingly streaming forth from Sirius's mouth at Madam Pomfrey’s prompting.

“... I tried to break the curse myself with Arnica’s Second Law. That, and I thought, a modified Scarpin’s revealer—” his voice trailed away under Madam Pomfrey’s outburst. 

“For Merlin’s sake, Black, what was the original curse intended to do?” She sounded panicked, and frightened, the shrill tone of her voice caused the hairs on the back of Remus's neck to prickle and raise. Alice, sitting on the floor next to Peter now, sniffled hard. 

“I don't know what it's meant to do— but, it'll have to do with her blood— with her lineage— m— maybe her future children.” Sirius's voice shook and Remus could imagine the way his hands would be curled in his lap. 

Madam Pomfrey tutted with impatience, the clinking of glass bottles and phials accompanied muttered spells as she tried to halt the vitriolic curse of the family Black. So far, Lily hadn’t uttered a sound, as far as Remus could tell. “This is a fine mess indeed, Mr. Black,” she berated.

Brisk footsteps echoed from the stairs and halted James in his pacing and he adjusted the robe, tying the sash tight around him. He looked, somehow, battle ready, as if the robe and his fear were thick armour and all he needed was a villain to conquer. To set things right. To save the girl. 

“What happened?” Came Severus’s worried and accusatory voice as climbed the steps towards them, the seventh attendant of their council. He was wide eyed and pale, his cheeks blotchy and eyes red. “A portrait came to find me, said Lily was in the hospital wing.”

“There was an accident—” Remus started, stepping forward with his hands in the pockets of his grey trousers, the thin sole of his old chucks squeaked on the stone floor. 

“What kind of an accident?” Snape demanded, looking directly at James, who pulled the rumpled terrycloth tighter around him, glaring defiantly back.

“She fainted,” Peter offered in an attempt to placate Snape. 

“What did you  _ do _ ?! The portrait said she was in  _ your _ dorm!” Severus’s voice was damning as he pointed a shaking finger at James. 

His eyes burned into Severus, his chest puffing out and his hands clenched into fists at the accusation that he would ever dare put anyone in harm's way, let alone Lily Evans. 

“Why are you even here, Snape? This is a Gryffindor matter.” James spat back.

“ _ I'm _ Lily's best friend, you wart.” Severus challenged.

“Bully for you,” Peter snapped, as Remus gripped James's arm as a precaution. “We’re all her friends.” 

The echoing footsteps of yet more interlopers disrupted the erupting tension between them, with Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Shafiq all striding into view with purpose, expressions stern and stoic, sweeping past and scattering the huddle of high strung third years. The wake of their passing seemed to dissolve the threat of petty squabbling between them all and the seven of them gazed hopefully behind the three professors as the swinging doors fluttered open and shut. The fragile moment of hope that heralded their arrival was quickly swallowed by the renewed silence of the stone corridor, the whiff of lemon and astringent cleaning solutions from beyond quickly dissipating. 

As the doors had swung closed, Remus had caught sight of Sirius, sitting meekly on a lone metal stool, the type Madam Pomfrey often used to reach the highest shelves of potions above the cabinet of dried herbs and salves. Sirius sat horribly still and slumped, pale and sick with grief, clutching the innocuous green bottle. Lily's still, prone form on the crisp hospital linens had been ensconced in a web of glowing spell work under Madam Pomfrey’s furrowed brow. 

As soon as the door thudded closed James erupted into speech, “That’s it! I’m going in there!” 

To which Severus stepped in front of him, cold and defiant, “If anyone’s going in there, it’s me!”

“Stand down,” James growled, the robe slipping from his shoulders in the wake of his anger and worry. 

“Never,’ Snape spat. Peter, too, drew his wand unable to contain himself as everyone’s emotions began to boil over. 

“Remus! Do something!” Dorcas pleaded, covering her face with her hands as Peter stepped in front of them, trying to shield them from the fray. 

“Stay out of this.” James spat, as the two boys began circling each other. 

“Afraid to take me on without Black here to run to your aid?” Severus growled, his eyes gleaming and teeth bared. James’s face burned a deep red. “Where is he, anyway? Not that he cares about Lily at all, the self obsessed toad.” 

“James, Lily won’t forgive you for fighting with Severus,” Remus tried, stepping gingerly forward with his hands up. His baggy maroon sweater slipped down to his elbows, revealing his pale, scarred forearms. Severus’s gaze flashed towards him, calculating and suspicious. 

“Did  _ you _ do this to her, Lupin?” Severus asked. The question baffled him, but he wasn’t given a chance to respond. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed all your scars, I know you’re dangerous.”

Remus was rooted to the spot, hands still up in frozen placation, mouth ajar, brain unable to decide what comes next, when he heard James and Peter shouting at the same time, drowning out Severus’s countercurse. 

Severus’s legs began to jerk wildly, dancing beneath him as James’s spell hit him, at the same time Peter’s poorly cast  _ afivors _ forced patches of feathers to sprout in unsightly clumps beneath his robes and made his nose elongate into a beak. 

James fell forward, projectile vomiting several giant slugs onto the stone floor, and Marlene just barely managed to dodge a similar fate by diving sideways into Alice.

Remus came back to himself as he saw Peter raise his wand at the feathered and flailing Slytherin, and reached for his wrist. 

“Don’t, Peter,” he snapped, but Peter looked vicious and protective. 

It was then that the hospital door slammed open, revealing a harassed and aggrieved Professor McGonagall glaring down at the scene before her. She marched towards James, in his puddle of slugs, and Severus in his squawking fury, and dragged them, groaning and furious, by the ear towards her office down the hall, ranting and raving about never having a single moment’s peace between a Potter and a Black in her house. 

Remus and the rest were left standing there in the ringing silence. 

When the echoing footsteps and muffled complaints of James and Severus finally faded from the hall, Remus tiptoed gingerly to the great wooden doors and placed an ear against it, trying hard to hear what was happening inside. Peter and Alice followed his lead but based on the furrow of their brow, they could hear little more than garbled tones. 

“This is unacceptable,” Madam Pomfrey was saying vehemently. “I don’t care how it came into your possession, you should have handed it over as soon as you realised it was cursed!”

Professor Shafiq was trying to console in soft tones, offering, “Madam Pomfrey, the things we receive from our parents can be a complicated—” 

“Complicated, my arse!” She shouted, followed by what sounded like a bedpan crashing to the floor. “I’ll need to owl St. Mungo’s immediately and ask for support, this is beyond me!”

“Dear boy,” came Dumbledore’s gentle voice, “what can you tell me about this curse? What do you know about it?”

There was a long pause before Sirius found his voice, weak and timid as it was. “They hate muggles, and muggleborns—”

Madam Pomfrey tutted in anger. 

“Yes, well, continue.” Dumbledore prompted, gently. 

“I know she— Walburga, I mean, she talks about ending family lines. Not allowing muggles to carry on wizarding blood or names. Ruining their chances at a family. Or killing them, but that’s not creative enough for her, to be honest.” 

“And what did she want you to do with it?” Shafiq asked. 

“To— to make them bleed,” Sirius said, his voice wavering slightly. “I tried to change it, Professor. I did. I wasn’t trying to leave it out for someone to be hurt.” 

Sirius had eventually come out of the hospital wing, face drawn and pale, his self-loathing palpable in the way his shoulders sloped and how he walked like a beaten dog. He looked up into Remus’s face for a fleeting moment before shaking his head and carrying himself down the stairs and out of sight. 

James had come back from McGonagall’s office, free of slugs but filled with renewed anger, whinging about Severus and making plans for revenge with Peter, who was equally vexed with Severus for putting dear Marlene in the line of a rogue hex in the heat of spell casting. 

James and Sirius had tiptoed around one another in the intervening days, being awkwardly polite and unsure in one another’s presence. It was unsettling and drew the attention of nearly everyone in the house. Word had spread about Lily’s mysterious injury, the fact that she hadn’t been allowed visitors in the hospital wing, and that Sirius and James were somehow involved. No one but a few crass souls, Gideon among them, asked what had happened. 

Remus hadn’t known what to tell him, really. A spell gone awry was all he could muster. 

As the wet rains of March began to melt the remaining snow drifts against the castle walls and battlements, fresh heads of daisies and clover burst forth from the chilled, damp ground, heralding the beginning of spring, and with it, the increasingly concerning behaviour of Sirius Black. 

Sirius stopped coming to the dorm room until well after midnight, every night, and was first to rise and be gone the next morning. He was often missing from meal times and was several times called to the Headmasters office for missing class. Remus tried, in his own way, to bring Sirius back to a normal place, but it seemed his efforts were in vain. He left little plates of scones and chocolates on his bedside table that went untouched. He sent him notes in class trying to cheer him up, but received no reply. He left him memos on his bed about assignments that were due, that were left unacknowledged, and assignments unfinished. 

Whenever Remus tried to stop Sirius in the halls, or grab his attention in the common room, he had an irritating way of using sudden diversions to escape. Marlene, Alice, and Dorcas were distraught and confused about Sirius’s role in what happened and as such, oscillated between hounding him for information and being resolutely cold towards him. The acrid atmosphere seemed to repel Sirius from the shared spaces of the castle and Remus wondered where he hid himself away.

Between an unusually subdued James, a downtrodden Sirius, and a relentlessly unaware Peter, he felt as if their little group were falling to shambles. All the while the dark storm cloud of Lily’s absence hung over their heads, disallowing them to fall back into their normal routines and rhythms, their easy banter, and jovial nonsense. 

_ _______________ _

_ March 8, 1974 _

The day of the full moon in March was a Friday, according to his moon calendar. As he pulled a worn sweater over his head, Remus saw that the moon would rise over the horizon at two minutes past ten in the morning. With James and Sirius having just left for Arithmancy, discussing the complicated charts they had to finish during breakfast, and Peter trying desperately to find Alice to copy her homework before Charms, Remus was left with ample time to meander quietly down to the whomping willow and his cosseted tunnel. 

He walked swiftly passed the Great Hall, opting to forgo any breakfast, the near moon making him nauseous and restless. The cloudy grounds opened up beyond the great oak doors and he winced at the sudden brightness, wondering idly what he would miss in Elekhrancy that day.    
  
He recalled with some fondness the night earlier in the week where he and James had stayed up writing their assignments together in their battered and well used notebooks; _ What are the key concepts you would uphold in a system of virtue-based ethics, were you to design your own? _ At the end of several thick hours of contemplation and debate, they had far more questions than answers. Was autonomy more important than public safety? Was justice a reasonable expectation for a society? What would inform the concept of justice? How does one define punishment? Remus had been sincerely looking forward to Professor Shafiq’s questions and the class discussion on their chosen virtues. Sirius had been remarkably silent on the topic, and he didn’t have to think hard to guess why. 

Lost in thought, Remus let his feet carry him down the steps and out onto the sloping lawns behind a group of first year Hufflepuffs on their way to Herbology. An excited little blonde boy chattered animatedly about the nifflers he had just read about, bursting at the seams, and he wondered balefully if he had ever been that small, or that excited. 

He tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his brown and fraying corduroy and cut across the path, away from the little parade of younger years. Remus ruminated on one of his proposed virtues, kindness to all living beings, wondering if his inner wolf was even capable of such a lofty, ironically humanitarian goal. 

Halfway towards Hagrid’s hut, Marlene appeared quite suddenly, as if by apparition, beside him, linking their arms together and startling him quite thoroughly from his musings. “Oh, Remus— won’t you walk with me? I’m so dreadfully worried about Lily—”

“Uh— ” Remus stuttered, alarmed and taken off guard. He had been so lost in thought, he hadn’t heard her coming and now didn’t know what to do that she was here.

“I just need someone to talk to for a moment, just a walk to clear my head. Lily and I used to walk together down here before Charms, and, oh Remus, what if she isn’t okay?” She rambled, looking hopeful and sweet and open, her short hair sticking up at odd angles in the cool wind of the morning, the flannel tied about her waist fluttering at her sides. 

Remus stuttered out something that Marlene must have mistook for shy bashfulness, or agreement, for she smiled in relief and began walking in the opposite direction of the whomping willow and towards the greenhouses. 

“Of course, yes, I have a bit of time to spare— before…” his mind spiralled as he tried to stitch together a believable excuse, distracted by the blush on Marlene’s cheeks and the way her hand felt on his scarred wrist. But, no matter, as Marlene wasn’t really listening. She launched into a monologue about how worried she was about Lily, how much work her dear friend would have to catch up on, on how unfair Lily still couldn’t have visitors. 

Glancing back at the waving branches of the willow beyond Hagrid’s, he thought briefly, before allowing himself to be led away with butterflies rising in the pit of his stomach, that he could spare a few moments for a friend in need. 

Just a few. 

______________

Remus’s whole body shivered uncomfortably in a way that had nothing to do with the cool air lifting his fringe, the brightening sky of mid morning having long since enveloped him and Marlene. They were standing close together, just beside greenhouse four, Marlene’s hand having slipped carefully into Remus’s, her thumb sweeping idly across a scar on the back of his hand. She didn’t seem to mind how clammy it was, or aware of how they had drifted closer together as the minutes had ticked by.

“Off he went!” She tittered, “Poor Sally had to chase them right down into the valley—” the ripple through his body distracted him from the story Marlene was telling about the time she saw a flock of pixies kidnap a neighbour’s crup. 

“Remus, is everything alright?” She asked with a raised brow.

Cold fear shot through him. “Fuck!” He exclaimed, looking down at his watch. He had been so enamoured with her transformation from shy and worried about her friend to the sly smiles and boldness she was exhibiting now, that he had actually forgotten about his own impending transformation. He hadn’t realised it was 9:55am. 

He only had seven minutes to get to the shack.  _ Fuck _ . 

Marlene looked slightly alarmed at the outburst and she widened her eyes, her hand going slightly slack in his now trembling grip. 

“I have to go—” he managed to mutter before dropping her hand and tearing off in the opposite direction, another familiar shiver running down his spine. 

“Remus!” Marlene called after him, sounding dejected and hurt and confused. 

How could he have been so  _ stupid _ ? How could he have let something as inane as a pretty girl with short hair distract him from something so important, something so  _ dangerous _ ? 

He was running full tilt, his lungs burning as he headed for the whomping willow. He had told himself when Marlene changed his trajectory that he could spare a few minutes, no problem, the moon wouldn’t rise for a while. But then— but then, time did that funny thing where it no longer seemed linear, or it sped up, or it looped back on itself, or something, because he didn’t know how it went from just shy of eight am to suddenly nearly ten without him noticing. It had been so easy to wrap himself right up in thoughts of worries about Lily, many of which he shared, and then the small catharsis of trust, that devious thing. And, then, the way Marlene had been so comfortable with him, that was new and beguiling, too. 

“No, no, no, no—” He muttered to himself, panting and feet slapping hard against the earth as he felt his skin contract uncomfortably. He  _ had _ to get there. He had to make it in time. He couldn’t change yet. It was too dangerous, there were too many  _ people _ . Kindness to all living things and all sorts of loftily inconceivable virtues seemed like a cruel and incoherent joke. 

The tree loomed just ahead of him as his heart pounded uncomfortably hard, he was so close, he was almost there. A sliver of a white orb was just visible over the mountainous horizon as he yanked his wand out and wheezed the  _ wingardium leviosa _ that allowed him to guide an errant stick to the knot on the gnarled trunk of the flailing, ominous tree. 

“Not yet, not yet, please, no—” he begged as he felt another, more violent shudder run through him, his bones aching and stretching, skin crawling. He still had to get through the tunnel and seal himself on the other side, he couldn’t change  _ here _ .

“Stupid, stupid wolf!” He snarled as he threw himself into the tunnel and ran as fast and as hard as he could, bent awkwardly as he was no longer short enough to stand up straight in such a small space. He muttered dire threats to the wolf in his chest as it clawed its way to the surface of his consciousness, feeling the lunar tide pulling it forth, calling it. His whole body sang with the inevitability of it. 

He wasn’t going to make it. He wasn’t going to be sealed safely away. He was going to transform, here and now, in this tunnel at ten in the morning on a Friday, with the grounds full of innocent, unsuspecting students. Unmarred and uncursed as they were. Flashes of the cat and the hair he’d coughed up and the way he’d torn apart something so small and helpless and innocent started streaming through his mind. 

Sharp claws burst forth from the tender nail beds of his human toes and Remus fell forward, pain shooting up his wrists as he braced himself on the hard dirt floor of the passage. His body writhed in pain, against his control, as he desperately tried to kick the shoes off of his rapidly morphing feet. He had no control of the howl of agony and fury that ripped through his throat as his human mind scrambled for purchase. 

The last thing he remembered as the wolf took over and the fur pushed through his pores, was looking towards the light at the end of the tunnel and the dancing shadows of the willow’s branches beyond and moving back towards it. 

_______________

A pitiful moan escaped Remus’s mouth and made him painfully aware of the chill of the night air. It was dark and the ground beneath him was much too soft and irregular to be anything as familiar as the shrieking shack, or the smoothed tunnel of dirt that led to it. 

He sat up quickly, his head spinning and pounding and he winced, pressing the heels of his human hands into his eyes as memories of his transformation trickled into his mind, thickly and slowly at first, and then rapidly and all at once. 

He had transformed in the tunnel. He hadn’t made it to the safety of the boarded up house. He had transformed and shredded the clothes off his back and howled a deep guttural call of joy at the sight of daylight beyond. He had run towards the light, ready for the chance to stretch his legs and run at full speed, to hunt, to feed, to fight—

Remus winced, his hands gingerly feeling his ribs and the sharp radiant paint he felt there when he inhaled deeply. He remembered the whomping willow landing a startling and horrible blow on his side, sending him tumbling and sliding back into the tunnel from just beyond the entrance, well screened by grass that had been encouraged to grow long between the thickly buttressed roots. 

He groaned and laid back down in the mulch beneath him. The night-time sounds of the forest around him rising like a chorus, magical and peaceful and so very at odds with his memories of the tree.

He had fought the whomping willow. For hours. Throwing himself into its flailing and aggressive branches, over and over, trying to find a gap to escape through, a weakness. He prowled and calculated, bit and scratched, managing to snap off several small, whip like branches in his efforts as they peppered the tunnel entrance relentlessly. 

A cold wind tumbled up through the valley and he shivered violently. The dawning realisation that he was naked in the forest begot a grunt of frustration, which was amplified into an aggrieved and prolonged groan when he realised his wand was probably still in the tunnel. Tilting his head back, Remus took note that stars were bright and the sky was clear up beyond the canopy. Had it not been such a completely shite situation, he would’ve been struck with the beauty of it. Instead, he pulled himself back from the dark sea of the sky and rather assessed his body carefully for other injuries. 

He was sure his wrist was sprained. His left thigh was so sore that when he tried to stand he nearly fell right back over, and he could feel the paunchy swelling of a black eye and taste the dried blood of a nose bleed. To his surprise, however, despite his obvious physical injuries from wrestling a powerful magical tree, he felt, well,  _ amazing _ . 

His body felt strong and solid and pulsing with magic, and when he focused on it he was surprised by the burst of a warming charm that erupted from his fingertips and yelped in shock. 

He had never done wandless magic before. 

Again, he tried to stand and stretch his limbs out. He felt strong. He felt  _ good _ . Normally, after a transformation, he felt ill and shaky, his bones all hurt and he always had that lingering feeling of a fever that just wouldn’t break. Lifting his nose into the air he breathed deeply, the thick mossy smell of the cold forest filled his lungs. 

He remembered the victory, of finally, after hours, and hours, and after twilight settled outside the tunnel, dashing with quick agility and slipping between the whip like branches that had kept him restrained for so long. Gaining the high ground with the grass beneath his wolf’s pawed feet for the first time, he lunged towards the edge of the forest, bursting with the joy of it.

The moon had been high in the sky and he slipped seamlessly through the underbrush, his muscles burning and lungs bursting with the power of his howling. It had been exhilarating, life altering. Nothing had ever felt so good in Remus’s entire life. He had been wild, part of the woven tapestry of the deep forest, running and howling and leaping with elation at the vast freedom sprawled out in all directions. 

The realisation of it hit Remus like a punch to the gut. He had always imagined being free and unencumbered as the wolf would be terrifying and dangerous, that he would have a trail of destruction and blood leading people to him to condemn him. That he would run for the forest and the promise of easy prey rather than the dark expanses between the trees. 

No, instead, he had run and frolicked, chased birds, rolled in muddy snowbanks, and leapt into the frigid waters of running streams, letting the icy drops run rivulets through his thick fur. It had been astonishingly liberating and lovely and his heart ached with the knowledge that  _ this _ is what he was meant to do every full moon. He and the wolf were one, and trapping the wolf every month was part of why he felt so shite all the time. He was neglecting and repressing an important integral part of his person. His being.

Amidst all of these dawning revelations, gaze drawn back up at the stars, blazing bright in the dark sky, drinking in the coldness of the night and the power of the magic pulsing through him, reality crept back in around the edges. 

He had transformed. He had gotten free with other students out on the grounds. Yes, the wolf ran to the forest, but what if he hadn’t? He could have hurt someone. Killed someone. Transformed them. 

He could have hurt Marlene. 

His magic wavered. Flickered with his uncertainty. His guilt. The cold crept back in and he shivered. 

He tried to dig deep again and bring forth the magic that kept him warm, but it was retreating, cowed by the overwhelming reality of his stupidity. 

“Fuck,” he swore loudly. His shoulders dropped and with an intrinsic sense, he turned towards where he knew the castle lay and began the arduous and miserably cold journey of a naked hike through the forbidden forest in March. 

It was only about thirty minutes of muttering swears and stepping on sharp sticks with his coldly numb toes before he reached the edge of the forest. His magic sporadically and unpredictably burst forward to keep him from succumbing to frostbite and hypothermia every time he let himself sink into the memories of the way the underbrush felt against his fur and springy soft mulch beneath his wide paws as he sniffed out the nests of ground birds and chased them through the dappled moonlight. It was, however, punctuated with the alternate, very human, and very uncomfortable, reality of the situation. 

“Ow— ow, fuck— god  _ dammit— _ stupid fucking wolf— what the— Merlin’s tits—” he groused in a steady litany until he reached the forest’s edge. 

He could see the castle, a few random lights burning in Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tower, and he wondered how on Earth he could sneak back inside, naked. His ribs were now burning with pain, making breathing a bit of a chore, his wrist was throbbing, and he knew he couldn’t avoid going to the hospital wing with such a dramatic limp. He wondered dejectedly why in the name of Merlin’s pants the wolf hadn’t taken him to the hot springs. A dip in Osler’s fire was all he wanted. For, surely, there was nothing of danger to a werewolf there in the night, even if the mysterious shrieks of his last visit terrified his human self. 

Now, how to get back into the castle?

Looking around him, he assessed the situation before picking up a fistful of leaf litter and smashing it against his exposed groin for some semblance of decency, and, let’s be honest, warmth. Feeling properly embarrassing, he began to shuffle along, hunched over, like some lame and shameful creature (a human, this time), to Hagrid’s hut. He knew it was a dangerous move, but if anyone would help him and not ask too many questions, it would be Hagrid. 

Large pumpkins and oversized cabbages gleamed in the starlight and he zigzagged through the patch towards Hagrid’s backdoor. He thanked his lucky stars that a candle still burned in the window while smoke billowed from the chimney. 

Remus took a deep breath and braced himself before knocking. “Hagrid?” he whisper-yelled, readjusting the hold on his smattering of leaves and sticks, his voice gruffer than he was anticipating, “Hagrid, I need help.” 

Immediately he heard an angry hiss, claws on wood, and Hagrid’s deep voice, “Back to bed, Algie- who the ruddy hell is here? No, Al, get out of the damn way, you beast— Oh.” Hagrid had opened the door, swaying slightly on the spot and smelling strongly of brandy, staring down with mounting confusion at a naked Remus clutching leaves to himself and shivering in the cold. 

“I don’t want to know.” He said resolutely, turning away, leaving the door open for Remus. “I ruddy well do not want to know. Don’t tell me, can’t keep a secret, anyway. Bloody well get in here ‘fore someone sees yer. Merlin’s beard, naked students showing up on my door, what on earth do you think you’re doing— no— don’t tell me, I told you— don’t bring those leaves in here— No, wait! don’t put them down!”

Remus, still hunched, in the doorway, and clinging to his precious leaves like they were the only thing preserving his dignity, looked at Hagrid pleadingly. “I need a sweater, or something— please.”

Hagrid continued his muttering as he rummaged in a chest of drawers, pulling out a sweater so large it could have doubled as a single tent. “It’s the smallest I got.” He said as he tossed it to Remus, who had to drop his leaves in order to catch it. Hagrid sighed heavily at the mess and turned to pour an extra bucket of tea. 

Remus was so grateful for the covering that he didn’t even care that the sweater fell all the way to his calves and that the sleeves hung far down past his fingers. He gathered the folds of extra fabric and tiptoed his way into the hut, but was stopped in his tracks by the sound of hissing. 

“Hagrid, what on Earth—” he exclaimed, weakly, as a positively rabid looking creature came clamouring and hissing out from a dog bed in the dark corner.

“No, Algernon! Back to bed, you menace!” He boomed, shoving a steaming hot bucket of tea in front of Remus who had climbed up onto the giant bench beside the table to escape the terrifying creature, who did not seem to appreciate the nighttime interruption. 

The hulking mass of black and white and grey fur reluctantly scuttled back to its dog bed and curled up, keeping a scathing and wary eye on Remus. “Hagrid, is that a  _ badger _ ?”

“Yup,” Hagrid said, tossing the exceedingly grumpy and decidedly feral thing a rock cake. “Found her abandoned in the forest as a wee baby, six years ago. She’s been with me ever since.” Algernon didn’t eat the rock cake, but rather pulled it under herself with her long claws and continued to glare at Remus in a menacing way. 

“A magical badger?” He inquired, taking a sip of the too hot tea, but relishing the warmth that was returning to his limbs and burning fingers and toes. 

“Nope. Just a badger. She usually just mulls about, guarding me pumpkin patch. Lucky for you she wasn’t outside when you came through. Would’ve taken you down, she would’ve. Protects the patch from pests, she does. Deer and the like.” Hagrid explained, sitting down across from Remus, who nodded concernedly. 

“You look like you lost a fight with a herd of centaurs,” Hagrid started, raising his hand in protest as Remus opened his mouth, “No, don’t tell me, I do not want to know. Just drink yer tea, warm yerself and I’ll get you up to the castle. Yer to go straight to the hospital wing, you hear? Coming here at midnight, looking like you’ve been trampled by thestrals. Drink yer tea, here eat this,”

And, Hagrid shoved a plate of rock cakes in front of him. A ravenous hunger stole over Remus that he’d never experienced before, thick and consuming, it rose from deep within him, his mouth watering, and he suddenly couldn’t think of anything more he’d like to do than eat the whole plate of rock cakes. 

So, he did. 

Sure, they hurt his teeth and they tasted like cardboard, but he couldn’t stop once he started. Concerned and alarmed, Hagrid got up and grabbed a plate of cheese and dried meats and fruit and placed that in front of Remus as well. He ate all of that too, chasing it down with the bucket of tea, the liquid escaping down the side of his mouth in his hurry to fill the deep hunger in his belly. 

Hagrid’s eyes were red and tired and perhaps a bit overindulged in brandy, but they were focused on Remus with a furrow as he continued to place food in front of him. 

Warmth was seeping back into Remus’s bones and his belly was full of meats and cheeses and tea when suddenly the exhaustion hit him like a rogue bludger. He glanced longingly at Hagrid’s bed, a move which didn’t go unmissed. “Oh no, no you don’t, let’s go, back up to the castle with you.”

But Remus was so tired and the wolf had never before been so content and warm and recumbent within him that he couldn’t stop the drooping of his eyes, as inevitable as the transformations themselves. 

“Here we go, damn kids—” Hagrid said with an exasperated fondness as he lifted Remus in the ridiculously oversized sweater, and reached for the door. “Algie, hold down the fort, won’t ya.”

Remus was asleep before the door was shut behind them. 

_______________

The jostle of being placed on a bed in the hospital wing was just enough to rouse Remus from the deep sleep he had slipped into, slung over Hagrid’s shoulder. 

“For the love of Helga, Hagrid, what happened to Mr Lupin?” Madam Pomfrey demanded as she rushed forward to examine him. 

“Don’t ask me!” Hagrid said quickly, sounding exasperated and cornered. “I don’t know what he was up to, but it looks like he needs fixing.”

“You’re telling me!” She countered, flexing Remus’s sore wrist and tutting when he winced horribly. 

“Thanks, Hagrid,” Remus mumbled sleepily, irritated that he had to be poked and prodded before being allowed to slip back off. 

Hagrid threw his hands up and turned away, muttering. “Mad kids, lucky Al didn’t meet him alone, can you imagine—”

“That was quite a night you had.” Madam Pomfrey said softly, pouring him a large dose of skele-gro and brewed a large kettle of Dr Wharton’s strains and sprains tendon mending tea. 

Remus nodded noncommittally, but guilt began to well within him at the unspoken lie and he grimaced around the thick potion. He dallied for a moment, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, on the verge of speech as she cast a matrix web of colourful magic around him, analysing it, before deciding on a half truth. 

“I, uh— I woke up in the tunnel. The whomping willow did this to me.” He admitted, not looking directly at her. 

“Oh, dear Merlin!” She exclaimed, horror etched in the lines of her face. “How did you break through that door?” 

Remus shrugged, still not looking.

“By Rowena’s robes, no wonder you look worse for wear. That explains Hagrid, then.” She was shaking her head, muttering about reinforcing the wards and barriers on the shack, and asking Professor Sprout to feed the willow some growth potions. Remus shuddered at the thought. 

“Your ribs will be fine in the morning and the bruises on your legs and face should feel better in a few days. Get some sleep.” And with that, she placed a conjured pile of normal sized clothes on the side table and left.

After Remus had changed his clothes and pulled back the blankets of the bed, desperate to sleep, he heard a body nearby tossing and turning, huffing impatiently. 

“Lily?” He asked tentatively tiptoeing away from the bed and pulling back the curtains that divided their two cubicles. 

“Remus?” Responded the wonderfully alive and familiar voice. 

“Merlin, Lils, it’s so good to hear your voice!” Remus rushed across the floor to the opposite wall where Lily was ensconced in a white nightgown and a pile of blankets, looking fiery and defiant, even at this late hour. 

She allowed a small smile, despite herself. “Despite Black’s best efforts, I suppose,” It was clear she wanted to be irritated with Remus, on principle, based on his proximity to Sirius and James, but he could tell she was pleased to see him. 

“Oh, Lily, you have to know that curse wasn’t intentional. Sirius would never try to hurt someone like that on purpose,” Remus limped over to the bed, clamoured onto it and sat cross legged at the foot. 

“So he’s said,” She picked idly at the hem of her hospital blanket and sighed heavily, letting the silence hang between them.

“Has he been in to see you? You don’t believe him?” Remus asked. 

She shrugged. “Of course he has, but what am I supposed to believe? He had a curse for muggleborns hiding under his bed. A curse meant to—” she looked away, scowling.

He waited, not quite sure if he wanted to know. 

“Madam Pomfrey said I might not be able to have kids—” She admitted quietly after a long silence. “Or that my lineage is cursed, or something. Don’t tell anyone.”

Remus wasn’t sure what to say. He was just shy of fourteen and couldn’t imagine thinking about a time or place in which he wanted to be responsible for tiny humans, let alone, cursed ones. 

“It’s fine though,” Lily said, sniffing, trying to sound robust and pragmatic as she wiped her eyes.

He nodded. “I’m sorry, Lils. It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is that a classmate cursed me and he didn’t even get _detention—_ shouldn’t he be chucked into Azkaban for this? He had a curse in a _wine_ _bottle_ under his _bed_. Why the fuck did he have that?”

“His parents sent it to him.” Remus offered tentatively. Wanting desperately for Lily to understand that this wasn’t really Sirius’s fault, but not wanting to tell his story or give away his secrets. “They’re— they’re not the nicest. Downright foul, if you ask me.”

“And what makes you think he’s not?” She demanded, suddenly furious. “He was raised by them, taught by them, fed horrible bigotry by them— how do you know he’s not just like them?”

“I trust Sirius,” was all Remus could say. “And I’m— I’m a halfblood who was raised muggle.” That wasn’t what he actually meant to say, he meant to say ‘I’m a dangerous mangy werewolf and Sirius still stands by me’, but he stopped himself just shy of that particular truth.

Lily eyed him speculatively, looking at his black eye and the bandages wrapped around his wrists, her red hair laying in thick waves on her shoulders and her green eyes boring into him. “What happened to you?”

“Badger attack,” he said promptly with a straight face.

Lily burst into laughter. A lovely, familiar thing.

“All right then, keep your secrets,” she said softly. “So long as you also keep mine.”

“Of course,” he smiled, easing himself off of her bed and limping back to his own, finally, finally ready to sleep. 

________________

_ March 9, 1974 _

“You said Hagrid carried him into the hospital wing?” 

“Yeah, practically starkers, covered in bruises and dried blood. His hair was caked in mud. The worst I’ve ever seen him. Thought he was dead.”

Remus slowly swam to wakefulness at the sounds of James and Sirius whispering nearby.

“Why were you here so late?” James asked carefully.

“Was trying to see Lily. To apologise. Again.” Sirius sounded dejected.

“Did you manage?” 

“No. She called me a bigoted arsehole and yelled for Madam Pomfrey. I have detention again tonight with Shafiq.”

“That seems unfair,” Peter offered consolingly. 

“It’s not,” Sirius answered, completely resigned. 

Remus finally opened his eyes and began a slow stretch to test the soreness of his ribs. Immediately James and Peter were up and frantic at the edges of his bed. 

“What happened?! Where were you?” James immediately demanded loudly, and then in a serious whisper, “you can tell us about it, you know? Your furry little secret is safe with us. We can help, Remus.” 

“What did you do?!” Peter nearly shouted, breaking the moment of trust that James was trying to build. 

“More importantly, why the devil were you naked?!” Sirius queried, leaning back in his chair, with just a shadow of his old sly smile. “Come now, Lupin, spare no detail. We’ve been making hypotheses for hours while you napped.”

“Why, good morning Mr Lupin,” Madam Pomfrey interrupted as she tore back the privacy curtain around his bed, carrying his customary post transformation breakfast of porridge and toast.

“Morning,” he offered mid-yawn, feeling the stiffness in his healed ribs and the nearly painful grumbling in his stomach.

After assessing his wrist and ribs she left him with his tray of food and potions and left them all to scramble back around his bed. 

Sirius hurriedly closed the curtains and cast his own privacy spells, and Remus, unable to retain decorum any longer, dug into his breakfast with a fervour he'd never demonstrated before. 

He all but drank his porridge in one before he looked up to find all three of them staring, mouths ajar and eyebrows raised. 

“What?” He asked, feeling self conscious but not slowing down as he tore into a thick piece of bread. 

James shook his head and closed his mouth, Sirius smirking in an impressed and satisfied kind of way. Peter just cocked his head and asked, “since when are you hungry after a full moon?”

James elbowed him hard, resulting in a squawk of protest, and Sirius tutted quietly. “No tact, Peter. None at all.” Though, he was smiling as he said it. 

Remus shrugged, scraping his bowl clean before reaching for his line of potions to wash it all down. 

“Remus— you look... different,” James said, tentatively, though not unamused. Remus looked up to see them all still staring.

“What happened?” Peter pressed again.

Remus sighed and began to tell the story. He ignored Sirius's snickering about Marlene holding his hand, and appreciated James's horror of him not making it to the shack, but Peter's hysterical laughter about his naked forest hike just seemed rude. 

“And I must have left my damn wand in the passage, but I managed to do a bit of wandless somehow so it wasn't so bad— stop laughing, Pete!”

They nearly all fell off the bed in hysterics when he told them about the leaves and the fresh horror of meeting Algernon in his Sunday best. 

“Wait, you did wandless magic?” James asked wiping the mirth from his eyes, “how?”

“Dunno. My magic feels different though—” Remus offered cautiously, examining his scarred hands and feeling the persistent buzzing beneath his skin. 

“A magical badger, though, right?” Sirius clarified. 

“No— totally non magic, bog standard badger.” 

“It hunts deer?” James looked astonished. 

“Apparently so. Doesn't like me much, either.” Remus said, remembering the glowering look of Algernon’s beady little eyes and her clackity clawed toes on the wooden floor, hoping dearly he’d never have to run into her again.

“So, how did it feel?” Peter asked in an unusually thoughtful tone.

“How did what feel?” Remus asked with a raised eyebrow, still thinking about the menacing badger. 

“You know, being out there. In the wild,” he asked, averting his eyes as if he thought that maybe it was an improper question. 

“Oh…” Remus said, surprised. The feeling of elation and vibrancy that he had awoken with in the cold forest had yet to abate and a small smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Brilliant, actually.”

All three of them grinned and glanced at one another, mischief alight in their eyes.

  
_______________   
_ March 10, 1974 _

“Stand still, you worthless goblin warts!” Shouted Filch as he hobbled up and down the line of students waiting in the front hall.

“Mates, guys, my dudes, where are we going first?” James asked, bouncing up and down, his hair wild and his eyes intense behind his square glasses. “Honeydukes? Dervishes? Zonko’s? The Three Broomsticks? Where’re we going?”

“I’d like to go find some owl nuts for Claudia,” Remus offered, adjusting the collar of his blue jumper. The hall was filled with chattering and animated students ready for a day out off the grounds. The front doors were thrown open and the brightness of the day and crisp air of spring were flooding in, filling them all with a sense of anticipation as they stood in line. 

“Yeah! Sure! Whatever you want! It’s your birthday, after all!” James nearly shouted with his over enthusiasm, readjusting the glasses that kept slipping down his nose. 

“You think there are any wizarding shops that sell muggle t-shirts?” Sirius asked, thoughtfully looking down at his Snowdonia shirt that stood out starkly beneath his opened wool jacket with the dark blue silk lining. The thing was so beat up and threadbare Remus wondered if it could still really be considered a shirt. 

“Dunno, but we can find out! We have all day!” James had been this level of near manic exuberance about this Hogsmede trip for weeks. By an unlucky series of detentions, full moons, and loyalty to the idea that Hogsmede should be experienced by all four of them together for the first time, they had managed to miss the first two trips of the year. It had been downright painful to hear all of their classmates go on about their time off the grounds and see all the treasures and treats they’d brought back to the castle, bursting with the novelty and magic of it all. 

“Oh, no, I forgot my money in the tower!” Groaned Peter, patting down his pockets wildly. “Wait for me!” He yelled, dashing off. 

Sirius watched him go, shaking his head. “Kid would lose his hands if they weren’t attached.”

Remus compulsively checked his own pockets, making sure he too had his pouch of wizarding gold. He had gone through the very sketchy process of exchanging his muggle money through owl service and felt even more precious about it than he usually would. There was just something so especially nerve wracking about giving your pet owl £50 worth of crumpled paper notes and coins, and waiting for its safe return. 

Before he had sent the money off, Sirius had taken his £5 note and a 5op coin and scrutinised them with great intensity. 

“But, this isn’t even real gold.” He exclaimed, biting the coin doggedly. “Are you sure this is real money?”

“Of course, I’m sure,” Remus said, snatching it back covetously and defensively. “I earned it at my _ job _ and I can buy things with it in the muggle world.”

“Sounds like a scam.” Sirius had said with an unconvinced countenance, watching Claudia swoop out the window, heading off towards London. 

In return, an austere and judgemental looking owl brought him nine galleons, 12 sickles and 18 knuts, with a receipt stating the conversion cost at 6 sickles. His eyes scanned the exchange rates and it nearly did his head in, so he stuffed it away and decided to trust that the goblins wouldn’t rob him of his scant summer pay. 

Sirius was shocked that the goblins accepted muggle money at all.

“How did you think muggleborns got their hands on wizarding gold, then?” He asked Sirius, who shrugged noncommittally. 

Filch got to them as Peter came running and panting back, his hair dishevelled, face red and sweaty. The old caretaker read down the list of students, clearly looking for someone to chase off, disbelief etched in every line of his face when he found all four of their names. 

“Very well, then,” he muttered threateningly, “these doors will be closed at eight sharp, and Merlin help the sad souls who come running up the lane after curfew!”

They took his warning with a grain of salt and scampered down the steps and into the bright morning, eager to stretch their legs and let out their barks of laughter into the open sky. 

The walk to the village was filled with James’s delight, and even Sirius seemed more buoyant than he had of late, with news of Lily’s return to the dorms lifting him out of the depths of his self loathing. And, while she hadn’t accepted any of Sirius’s many attempts at apologies, she had insulted Sirius and James over eggs that morning, immediately brightening his grim visage. He seemed to take significant heart from the fact that she was returning to her old, curmudgeonous and antagonistic self.    
  
Remus relished the cool air against his reddened cheeks and warm sun beating against his knitted sweater. He felt strong and happy and unlike how he normally existed in his day to day life. He tried to follow the conversations floating around between them as they were passing the station, but his mind kept drifting back to the forest. To the dappled moonlight and the lightness he felt in his body. To the cold water and the warmth of his breath as he had run with abandon. 

“Ready for Zonko’s?” Sirius asked, elbowing him and distracting him from his contemplation of what it meant to exist in this body. 

“What? Oh— sure. Lead on then,” he said, finally taking stock of their surroundings. The village of Hogsmead was, well, magical. It was the picture perfect scene of what any muggle would think a magical town full of magical folk might look like. The traditional wattle and daub houses were all topped with their steep a-frame roofs, some of them were even thatched like the old farmhouses Remus had seen in Wiltshire on a trip once with his mum. 

It was perfectly charming and utterly pleasant with its tight little lanes and oil lamp posts, it’s wooden carved signs and magical ads pinned up in the windows exclaiming the wares and goods within each shop. 

Their feet carried them down the main road, following a group of older Ravenclaws as they made their way to the Three Broomsticks. Glancing down a side road, Sirius slowed and heralded their attention. “I hear the Hogshead is good fun—”

“ _ No _ , Sirius, we talked about this,” James said in exasperation, pulling Sirius forward by his sleeve, “we’re going to be perfectly well behaved today so that we can ingratiate ourselves into Minnie’s good books, and then  _ next  _ time we come, we can go snooping around for a bit of mischief. Deal?”

“Uhhhg,  _ fine _ .” Sirius moaned. “It’s all just so— so—  _ quaint _ over here. Don’t know how anyone can stand it.”

“Oh, bah humbug,” chortled Peter, “it’s fine enough, what’s wrong with a peaceful day out?”

“Nothing, it’s all perfectly lovely.” Griped Sirius with a deadpan expression and a tone of deep and harrowing resignation. 

Remus smirked and nudged him genially with his elbow as James took the lead and marched them straight into a brightly coloured shop covered in streamers and glittering advertisements for ridiculous joke items. 

James and Peter dashed through the narrow aisles and teetering stacks of mischief maker supplies, picking up as much as their arms could hold. There was everything they could ever want, from dung bombs to fake wands that turned into a giant turkey leg when you tried to use it, and the Adventure Flavour Box of Bertie Bots Every Flavour Beans. Remus gave that one a wide berth as it had flavours such as goat’s blood, storm clouds, and existential dread.

Sirius even found a small tin of powder that claimed to suck the light from a room when tossed to the ground for up to a whole minute, in which they were all very interested. 

“Imagine the glory of the pranks we could pull on the Slytherins!” Peter crooned. “What I wouldn’t give to toilet paper their common room.” 

“Forget the Slytherins,” Sirius scoffed, “I wouldn’t waste this on them! Think of all the unencumbered exploring we could do. We could finally get past Filch to check out that third floor corridor that’s always locked.”

After Zonko’s they meandered, ladened with many items they didn’t really need, but wanted nonetheless, to the owlery where Remus bought Claudia some mice flavoured treats and a new leather thong for her mail deliveries. Peter was hissed at violently by a mulish ginger cat with a snub nose, which startled him into a cage full of ravens that burst into displeased, rasping cawing. Sirius pulled him away from the shrieking birds and James dusted the feathers from his jumper with an aggrieved expression. 

Next, they went to Skrivenshaft’s, where James insisted they all get new quills, lecturing Remus on the state of his handwriting. 

“I prefer muggle pens!” Remus said defensively, “Quills are outdated and stupid, they’re impossible to write well with.”

“My handwriting is just fine, thank you very much, yours looks like chicken scratch,” Sirius teased.

“Says the one who was practically born with a quill in his hand,” muttered Remus, refusing to spend his hard earned summer money on a quill that would just make him angry anyway. 

“I heard that,” Sirius said, shooting a stinging hex around the shelf of inks. 

James, in his interminable enthusiasm, came ambling over in much excitement, interrupting Remus’s retaliatory jinx. 

“Look!” he shoved a bottle of something shiny and iridescent under their noses. “It’s invisible ink! We can really up our note passing game.”

“If it’s invisible, how do we read it?” Peter asked. 

“There’s a spell, look here,” and he launched into an explanation involving Harriet’s Seventh Law of Material Substantiation that went clean over his head. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Remus chuckled at James’s eye roll. 

“Anyone fancy a butterbeer?” Piped up Peter as they exited Scrivenshaft’s, their arms now positively burdened with new and exciting things. 

Turning down the lane, they marched towards the pub with its swinging sign and red wooden door. 

The Three Broom Sticks was in the middle of a roaring trade with students and locals and Professors alike all milling about and talking over one another. It was warm but not stuffy with all the windows thrown open to let in the early spring breeze. It smelled like clean pinewood and cinnamon, of warm ale and whatever delicious stew was cooking in the giant cauldron over the fire. The sound of it all hit Remus and he flinched a bit when Peter shouted that he would get them all butterbeers if they found a table. 

Remus was grateful to find a place to sit, in the corner booth behind the stairs. Sirius dramatically and chivalrously pulled out a chair, each, for him and James, bowing in turn, before placing himself on the bench across from them with a wink. Soon Peter was shuffling in beside Sirius and placing down giant mugs of butterbeer before them. 

Near the end of their drinks and an argument about ethical harvesting of rare potions ingredients, or as Sirius yelled with incredulity, “the misnomer of ‘ethical’ dragon poaching”, a pair of old men shuffled into the booth beside them. One with a grey beard and houndstooth flat cap spoke with a thick, nearly indiscernible, Scottish accent to the one with the brown tweed cloak and neatly trimmed moustache, “Barty, I tell you, on my mother’s grave, old man, there’s summit in that house,” he pressed. 

“I know, I know your stories Lochlan, an’ the keep at the Hogshead says it must be unsettled spirits and the like,” Barty countered, taking a sip of his tumbler of steaming fire whiskey. 

James’s foot nudged Remus who set his drink down to pay closer attention. 

“All boarded up! No residents for years! And, yet, the shriekin’ wakes me up every bloody full moon, Barty. When is someone gonna call the ministry for an exorcism?” Lochlan asked, rubbing his hands down his thick beard with a furrowed brow.

“The ministry won’t come botherin’ no ghosts that’s mindin’ its own business, you know that,” the man chortled at his friend’s fretful intensity. 

“Didn’t know all you needed was an exorcism,” whispered Sirius conspiratorially over his mug before getting out of his seat and making his way back over to the bar. 

Peter snorted and choked on his drink. 

James was fighting an undignified fit of giggles as he whispered, “Happy Birthday, Remus, we’ve decided to perform an exorcism on you. For your furry little problem.”

“Oh, fuck off, all of you,” Remus groaned, trying not to laugh. 

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Sirius said, slipping back into the booth with a smile that instantly made Remus suspicious. When Remus turned in his seat he was horrified to see that the barmaid, Madam Rosmerta, was walking towards them with a slice of chocolate cake absolutely covered in sparklers, drawing the eyes and attention of everyone in the bar. 

“Oh no,” Remus groaned, hiding his face in his hands and slumping down in his chair.

“Oh yes!” Shouted James, pounding his fists on the table. 

“Cheers, Remus!” Peter said as the flaming sparkling piece of chocolate cake was placed in front of him. 

“Please don’t,” he begged of his friends, feeling loved but also completely mortified, looking at them through the gaps of his fingers. 

“Sorry, Lupin!” Sirius said, clearing his throat, not looking sorry at all, and beginning to sing happy birthday at the top of his lungs. James and Peter joined in with far too much enthusiasm, and soon the whole damn pub was singing and Remus couldn’t think of a worse hell. 

At the end of the song everyone clapped and whooped, James and Sirius loudest of all, and Remus put the sparklers out with magic, deciding very quickly he was not about to embarrass himself further by trying to blow them out. 

“I hate all of you,” Remus groused as he took a bite of the cake before shoving it into the middle of the table to share. 

“We love you, too,” Peter said, taking his own bite. 

“Now, lads, we’ve got a few hours left, what else can we do for this old man’s birthday?” Sirius asked as he too helped himself to cake. 

“I’d like to get my wand back if anyone cares to help me,” Remus piped in hopefully. 

“Oh, alright, we’ll go get your wand back,” Sirius said with a smile. “I’ve been waiting ages for you to teach me the trick of the whomping willow.” 

Remus glared at him, open mouthed. “Black— I swear—”   
  
“Come on, Remus,” Sirius grinned, swallowing down a huge mouthful of cake. “A super secret hideout where we get to yell and go on and get into trouble until the wee hours of the morning with none the wiser? How could you ever pass that up?” 

Remus thought, later that night, his wand on his bedside table, that this may have been his best birthday yet. Lily was out of the hospital wing, and Sirius was regaining his normal swagger. Peter and James had fresh black eyes because they didn’t take Remus’s warning about the whomping willow seriously, and Sirius had laughed so hard at them he tripped down into the tunnel with little grace. 

This last moon had brought his most profound transformation and realisations yet and had coloured all his days since, brightening them and making him feel happy and content. He hoped dearly that it would last, and tried not to think about what he would do the following moon, shut back up in the shrieking shack. 


	17. Rhiannon

Three things happened that spring in the time between the snows of late march melting, creating deep and hungry patches of dark mud throughout the grounds (particularly across their beloved quidditch pitch, on which Sirius spent many hours, wooden bat in roughened hand), and the flush of green that would come to renew the sloping meadowland around the castle in the first throws of April. 

The first of these things was that Lily Evans returned to classes amongst the whispered gossip of many, and adamantly refused to accept any apology that Sirius attempted to make, both in public and private. In fact, the more cowed and apologetic he had become in her presence, the more viciously she bit back. After a particularly tense and spiteful potions lesson in which Sirius had found himself splashed repeatedly with her violently brewing stinging syrup each time he attempted even the smallest of conversations with the ruthless redhead, even Snape seemed to pity him, just a little. 

“Lily, I never wanted—” He’d simpered after a particularly well aimed slosh coated his right hand, large red welts rising rapidly in its wake.

“Severus, grind more nettle won’t you? This doesn’t seem to be doing the trick just yet.” She’d nearly yelled across the table. 

“I’m not like that, Lily. I’m not interested in anyone’s blood status. I couldn’t be bothered, honestly.” Sirius said miserably into his wildly mild and uncharacteristically bland potion, which was really more of a vegetable stew than anything else. 

“That’s not what I hear.” Grated Severus over the mortar and pestle he was fastidiously grinding across the dried nettle. “My whole house knows about the Blacks, Sirius. You should hear the way the Carrows go on about your father. There’s practically a shrine to your pedigree in one of the dorms. Little Regulus sleeps under a four poster carved with their names and, shall we say, achievements,” Snape had a little laugh here, then coughed a bit. He paused in his frantic grinding, perhaps only now noticing that he had managed to aerosolise the finely powdered plant. 

Sirius stared at Snape across his simmering stock, muddy brown and smelling far too savoury to be anything magical. He kept his face as impassive as ever, swallowing down the burning sensation that accompanied thoughts of Regulus, the sweet boy he had convinced himself would sort Hufflepuff, drowning in a night sky of such poisonous constellations. 

There was snickering from Rosier at the bench behind Snape, his dark eyes cast over his shoulder to watch Sirius and his reaction. “Don’t you know, Black? Piera Zabini in fourth year has Bellatrix’s old bed.” He had a sickly, knowing smile that made Sirius feel comparatively small. Ignorant. “You wouldn’t believe the notches on that bedpost and what they stand for. She’d be right proud of you following in her footsteps.” 

“Five more minutes, everyone!” Came Slughorn’s booming voice from the front of the room as he clapped his doughy hands together, smiling broadly across the veritable sea of nettle steam and the heads of pupils bobbing beneath it. 

Lily nearly poured a whole ladleful of potion across Sirius’s lap on her way to decant her noxious brew. But their eyes didn’t meet and Sirius didn’t know how to say anything that could ever temper her anger. James didn’t even try to help.

The second thing that happened were several long evening sessions in the company of Professor Shafiq. This normally would have been quite an interruption to Sirius’s life at Hogwarts and he previously would have rallied hard against how much time with his friends it cut into, but the two quidditch practices he’d had to skip and the awkward questions that James kept slipping into otherwise banal conversation in the library, common room or dormitory were not really things he found himself missing. 

Alternatively, there was a much needed catharsis that seemed to happen between the third and fourth cup of fragrant, floral tea amongst the scattered silk throw pillows and the intricate woven carpets. A moment of delicate consideration, wafting about, unhurried and unbothered by the fears and insecurities of the world outside of that moment. Where it smelled like jasmine and myrrh and everything was in the half-light of a candle, the setting sun or scattered stars. 

It would usually follow a statement, or perhaps a question, that Professor Shafiq would let fall about the room with the thick incense and the long light of the evening. 

“There’s a growing movement to resist the rise of pureblood ideology, you know Sirius.” 

“When you graduate, there are people who would welcome you and help you find your way.” 

“Adults do not always know better than children. Never second guess what feels right in your heart just because someone older has deemed it less than a truth.” 

“Are you going to be safe at home this summer?”

That last one had similarly eaten holes in his throat and his stomach and it was deeply quiet while the stars appeared in the dark sky of a new moon. Was he? What was safety, anyway? 

He didn’t think they’d kill him, no. But, survival isn’t really the same thing, is it? 

He’d tried to talk about Ishtar. Tried. He’d gotten horribly nauseous, curled up on the floor and gasping, before Sohail Shafiq knelt down and hushed him. Lifted his left hand to inspect it, his own full of golden rings that were oddly cool against the raised red lines across Sirius’s skin. 

“No, Sirius,” He’d said softly and gently and so very sadly, “these things are not to be spoken. Not yet. This is old magic and it will be still years before the caster dies and you are free of it.” 

It was horrible to hear those words. To feel such magic curl around him, happy to punish him for honesty. To rake across his insides, sicken him, submerge him all for giving breath to truth. He’d suspected it for some time now, but the way his skin had itched and boils had formed, the way he seemed to choke on his own tongue when he got close to speech, this confirmed it. They’d made the unbreakable vow. 

It had been that last night of the Ishtar rites. Gathered there with men far more akin to strangers, who smiled in the dark and who cast magic and spoke enchantments, who guided the inductees to link hands while ribbons formed, knotted about such small wrists. He’d been told never to share what had happened there. To let himself gossip away the secrets of generations, of course, but a whole turning of the earth had passed before the gravity of this spellwork was made clear. 

How typical. How sinister. They’d done it without ever telling them what it meant. What the unbreakable vow would mean. They’d done it and not ever cautioned them that to speak honestly, to unveil their horrors, would mean a certain and swift death. 

Sohail Shafiq had made him tea, and the quiet had returned between them. Sirius missed Cadmus Yaxley and all their whispers around flasks of whiskey, the only one with whom he could’ve roiled in the truth. Been candid in the horror of it all. The one he’d clasped hands with while his father and his uncles laid hands on his shoulders. The one he’d spoken the words of fielty and fidelity with, under the guidance of Nicabar Carrow in a sky blue robe, black walnut wand held aloft. 

But, Cadmus was gone beyond where he could reach him. And so the world kept turning and a second Ishtar was drawing ever closer, creeping along the coming horizons. 

A knock at the door to Shafiq’s favourite first floor classroom in early April seemed to chase away the lofty sense of timelessness between many cups of tea, and, without waiting for Professor Shafiq’s invitation, the burnished gold handle glittered in the soft light as the rosewood door swung inward. A cold draft rushed in, fluttering parchments and causing the many candles to flicker. 

Professor Dumbledore seemed to swell impossibly to fill the space beneath the many lobed arches of the white marble door frame, backlit by torches burning in the stone corridor beyond, his sweeping velvet robes and pointed wizards hat oddly formal and cold next to the soft linens and silks of the room, the ceiling of which was styled with many recesses and tiled mosaics of the firmament. 

“What is it, Albus?” Professor Shafiq was rising to his feet, the many golden bangles around his wrists clinking softly as he moved, his hands, adorned in similarly etched and burnished rings, clasped together before him, his robes of pale pink, embroidered with flowers and herbs, falling about him in waves of delicately draped fabric. Sirius watched never before seen lines of worry, deep and fearful, draw themselves across his features. The air was thick and tense and Sirius felt odd and out of place, one hand still cupped around the tea that had moments ago felt so alluringly lackadaisical, the piles of silk pillows newly suffocating, destabilising, as he, too, struggled to his feet. 

“It has happened, Sohail,” Professor Dumbledore closed his eyes a moment, taking a deep breath and seeming to steel himself. “I’ve just heard from our contacts at the ministry.” 

Sohail Shafiq seemed suspended a moment in time, a man so unmoved by the universe and so adept at reflecting light and calm and the perfect stillness and ecstatic motion of the night sky, so practiced in parting the discordant seas of fear and doubt, he, for the first time, appeared to sink beneath it all, to be swallowed whole by the moment. The three of them stood, Sohail Shafiq’s breath no longer moving in and out, lips drawn together in a pursed, tight line, as if in every effort to halt time, to demand it stop it’s ceaseless march, to rein in the horrible truths that had spilled out into his world. 

Eventually, he breathed again. Deeply and horribly and full of the resignation that time is not so kind as to ever stop for the living. 

To Sirius’s great surprise, Professor Shafiq turned to him first, “Sirius, go forth from here and remember what we have discussed. And someday, someday in the future, you will be called upon to help.” He paused a moment, his green eyes fierce in the candlelight, reaching out to lay his hand on Sirius’s shoulder. “Rise to that occasion.”

With that, the two professors had turned and swept out of the room, the lingering smell of jasmine and myrrh remaining in the emptiness they had left, Sirius’s cup of tea still gently steaming. The candles burned for a moment longer before flickering one last time and going out. 

______________

The following morning at breakfast, Remus, pale and peaky looking after the moon, had taken the Daily Prophet from the lone talon of his uneven owl, spreading the front page wide before him to scan the obituaries first. He’d taken to this rather strange and unnerving habit several weeks back, but he’d never explained just who or what had prompted him to do so. A growing unease had trickled through the castle since the holidays. More rumours of disappearances. Children had gone home to mothers with more worry lines and fathers who took more and more hours at their ministry posts, mopping up the spillover, days and nights full of unrest. 

This particular morning, Remus made no comment as he flipped from the obits to arts and culture, occasionally leaning the stiff pages against a convenient jug of orange juice as he took unhurried bites of buttered toast, the paper soaking up condensation and blurring the front page photo of Bartemius Crouch shaking hands with Abraxas Malfoy on the steps of Gringotts Bank. 

Sohail Shafiq’s chair at the staff table in the great hall was empty from that day forward. His classes were cancelled, his favourite classroom on the first floor locked. No one seemed to know for sure where he’d gone or what had happened, and Professor Dumbledore made no effort to dispel rumours or explain his sudden absence. In his relative silence, murmurings that ranged from a psychiatric break to a sordid affair that had been found out by both his husband, wife and mistress seemed to rustle through the castle. Sirius even overheard a sixth year Hufflepuff swearing up and down that he was on the run from the ministry for orchestrating a whole catalogue of cult-like literature published in code in the society pages of the daily prophet. 

It was four days later, however, when Sirius caught sight of a small article in the bottom corner of the front page while Remus was scanning the obits, that everything fell into place. It was a short piece, only a paragraph or two, about the disappearance of Gloria Figg, journalist, politician and squib, champion of muggle rights and fierce advocate for reform across wizarding Britain. 

That was the second thing to happen, and it was dreadful to imagine, but it was very quickly eclipsed in the mind and thoughts of Sirius Black by the third.

In the second week of April, Sirius Black woke in the darkest part of night to the sounds of small, padded feet slipping along hardwood floors. Like the pitter patter of an ill-timed rain on the tiled roof, it first brought sleep-heavy calm, and then it poured a deep and horrible dread down into his stomach. 

“What… is that?” Remus was awake too, it seemed. Sirius could hear him pulling his curtains back on his four poster. It was half three in the morning and the moon was first quarter. There were rustling sheets and blankets on his left as James rolled over, groaning softly. There were sharper sounds of crisp parchment tearing somewhere by Peter’s trunk. 

“It’s nothing Remus, go back to bed.” Sirius said, voice falling away on the trailing words. This was his. His problem. His to deal with. His invitation. He’d known it would come again this year, but he never thought. Not like this. 

It was horribly silent in the room, the small sounds of the interloper having quieted at their voices. He could imagine the quivering nose and whiskers and the way it froze so specifically. Sirius had broken out in a cold sweat. He breathed around thoughts of his fathers hands deep in the belly, sliding about, squelching in the steamy mess and blood flecked across his face and covering his hands and all about his cufflinks. 

“Oh, hello little darling.” Came Remus’s cooing call from across the room. “Sirius, I don’t know what you’re doing with her, but she’s precious.” Sirius sat up, limbs heavy and disobliging, pulling back the curtains of his bed to see Remus, cradling an off white hare, dangling in a dazed apoplexy in his arms. She still had a bit of parchment sticking out of one side of her whiskered mouth. It looked like Peter’s history of magic essay. 

Remus was leaning down and sniffing the long fur heavily, rubbing his nose into the depths of peppery pelt. “Who’s such a good lady? You are.” 

“Remus,” Sirius started softly, pulling a shirt from the pile of laundry on a nearby chair and tiptoeing across the dark dormitory, “put it down.” 

“Who?” Came Peter’s very confused voice from behind his own bed curtains. “Who got put down?” There was a second great rustling of bedsheets and Peter’s round face, squinting eyes and hair all akimbo, glared out at the two of them in the dark, the Lepus bright grey in Remus’s snug embrace. 

“No one’s putting Freya down.” Remus said staunchly. “Isn’t that right noble lady? Would you like a carrot? I’m sure Sirius here could call an elf for you, snap his fingers and what what, right? Some lettuce?” He was bouncing her in his arms like an infant. The thing looked wholly at ease, large padded paws hanging down from powerful thighs completely slack bouncing gently with his movements. 

“Remus, put it down.” Sirius hissed, dreading each new moment that Remus grew more attached. He was going to hate him for what was about to happen to Freya. 

“Is that a rabbit?” Peter was still half in his bed. “Where did you get a rabbit, Remus?” And then, looking closer, “is that my essay?”

“It’s a hare.” Grated Sirius, mostly to himself, rubbing his hand across his mouth, words spoken into his palm. His skin was prickling horribly. 

“Who has a rabbit?” James was up now, shoving glasses on and hopping down from bed. His steps were never light. Never quiet. “Remus has one!” Was the absolutely joyful declaration that came next. “Freya, was it?” James came over to shake the extended front paw, limp and soft and just a shade darker grey, and introduce himself. 

“Everyone stop.” Sirius spat in desperation. “Remus put the goddamn hare down right now. It’s not even a rabbit.” 

The other three boys stared at Sirius silently in the dark. Sirius was breathing hard and still sweating and trying hard to think of a reason. A way. Some explanation. How was he going to pull this off? They’d named her, for Godric’s sake. 

“Mate, what’s going on?” James was looking him over. Remus hadn’t budged. Freya was back to chewing the parchment she’d nicked, which was quickly disappearing beneath her twitching nose and just above her rapidly rotating jaw. 

“Nothing—” Sirius was panicking now. What could he possibly say to explain what had to happen next? “Remus just don’t get attached, she’s not— I’ve got to—” 

James stepped up and lay his hand across Sirius’s shoulder. “Mate, start from the beginning, right? Just out with the truth. We won’t be angry, right lads? Dunno why you’ve got a rabbit but it can’t be altogether horrible, can it?” He guided them back over to Sirius’s bed, and the two of them sat, Peter and Remus drawing back Peter’s far curtains so that the four of them sat facing each other around the little triangle of space between Sirius and Peter’s beds. Remus was rhythmically rubbing the flat of bone that ran up Freya’s skull from her nose and between her dark eyes. James was shirtless, and turned toward Sirius on the bed, glasses on, patient, waiting. “Out with it.” 

“She’s for a sacrifice.” Sirius said it as blandly as possible, at James’s left shoulder, doing his best not to look at anyone or anything in particular. 

“Nope, not happening.” James replied, even before Remus could get a word in. “It’s over, we’ve all bonded. She’s got a name now, so she’s family.” He was so sure it was positively disarming. “Try again, mate.” 

Sirius rubbed his face in his hands. “You know how it was last year Easter? The dead hare in the box and the nonsense? Had to go do this big family thing with my father?” 

“Yup. Hard to forget, that.” James nodded along, still singularly focused on Sirius and his bumbling through this story that they had been waiting to hear for a whole year now. “Had several nightmares about that eagle owl eating the thing over my French toast. Was not a pleasant scene.” 

“I can’t exactly tell you.” Sirius paused. “About what happens there. It’s a society he’s in. We’re in. I mean, my family.” Sirius picked at the hem of his t-shirt and shifted his gaze to look up at the underside of the hangings over his four poster. He was starting to feel a new kind of nausea, now. One that seemed to creep in around his guts whenever he thought about telling any of them about what had happened. About Ishtar. His left hand itched horribly. The prickling sensation across his skin seemed to roll and ripple in waves across his flesh. 

“So far that’s pretty obvious, Sirius.” James was relentless. Just terribly unforgiving. Nothing like Remus, who always stayed so quiet when he wanted the truth. Nope. James was all statements. Very brazen. Sirius’s kryptonite. “So what’s with the rabbit then? Why’s there a sacrifice?” 

“The hare has an egg inside it. It’s the invitation. It transports you to the place where the Easter gathering happens. You know, a portkey. I’m supposed to— I’m supposed to—” Sirius ate his words, spit them out and ate them again, stuck quite horribly on the images of many years of open bellies and the shiny white layers between muscles and viscera. The way the things looked so empty after, eyes still dark and horribly open. His left hand, he finally noticed, was erupting in that strange and linear rash, coiling about his wrist and palm and the backs of his fingers. 

“I’m supposed to cut the egg out.” Sirius dropped his gaze back to James, who had furrowed his brow and was mussing up his hair, still looking at Sirius. The nausea that had been building made a twisting turn that felt like a knife, somewhere far too deep in his own belly. 

“I’ve got a silver knife in my potions things, somewhere here.” Peter’s voice was still sleepy and the silence that followed his pronouncement was both strong and very bitter.

“Is that the only way to get at it?” James asked, flicking his gaze between Peter and Sirius before sending a glance back at Freya, wholly at home in Remus’s arms, who hadn’t moved a hair from his place perched cross legged on the edge of Peter’s bed. 

“What do you mean?” Sirius asked, brow furrowed. He’d never seen it done any other way. Never heard of an alternative. But, that wasn’t really surprising, given that no one had ever said anything about it, at all, and he’d never asked anyone else. He wondered, sweat still dripping uncomfortably down the small of his back, what Professor Shafiq would say. 

“Why don’t we wait for her to lay it?” Remus was curled over the hare protectively, stroking her long, long ears, pressed down her back. It was incredible how still she was for him. How unafraid. Sirius wondered how that was possible, given the amount of predator that resided, so fastidiously kept, in Remus. Why didn’t she sense it? Why wasn’t she afraid?

“Rabbits don’t lay eggs.” Peter mumbled, his blonde hair still very out of place, his round face scrunched in odd ways that seemed to remember the depths of sleep. “They’re viviparous.” 

“Why not?” Remus spoke directly down onto Freya in his lap. “She’s already got one, and it’s Easter, right? Isn’t that what rabbits do on Easter? It’s in all the old legends.” Freya’s eyes were half closed. 

“Suppose there’s no harm in waiting and seeing.” James said, shrugging, turning back to Sirius, who was just sitting there, wondering how on earth he’d never just  _ thought _ of that. Of waiting. Wondering if his father had ever thought of it, or if he’d really always just wanted to slit the things open and feel how warm they were inside, smell how full of iron. 

“No harm at all.” Sirius said softly, staring at the leveret and the way she’d seemed to nest into the belly of Remus’s shirt, which he’d pulled across his legs for her. 

“My mum always said you should never let something that’s been marked for sacrifice live.” Peter was rubbing his eyes and half yawning as he spoke, words stretched and awkward. “Will mess with everyone’s destiny for ages to come. Generations.” 

“That’s hogwash.” James said, standing up and seeming to have come to a fine and reasonable resolution for the drama of the night. “Freya stays.” He stretched and made his way back to his own bed, completely at his ease, not the least bit concerned about the logistics of keeping their new roommate. 

Peter grumbled miserably something about divinatory rules and pulled his covers back over his head, Remus smiling down at the Lepus in his lap. “Hear that, noble lady? A gracious and well met pardon. You can kip with me tonight.” He lifted her gently, shuffling back across the room to his four poster, which he drew the curtains around tightly, still cooing softly. 

Sirius sat stock still on his bed for a few moments longer, lost in thought, unsure how to proceed. Tomorrow, given the absence of a golden egg, Freya would have to meet her end, as was custom. 

If the egg was there, however, and if it did come to pass that all his father had needed those long years Kreacher had been tasked scrubbing blood from carpets and wiping spatter from the toile wallpaper, was a bit of patience. A bit of thought. A bit of listening to the old tales and the truth from the old gods. If that was true, well, what else was true? What else was needless, useless violence? What else was avoidable pain? Suffering? Where was Cadmus when he needed him?

What else was just the sickness of men, driven mad with their own lust and love of power? And what else could be done to stop it? 

He slept fitfully that night, dreaming of fields wet with dew in the golden dawn of a summer morning, surrounded by men and women he did not know. 

He was up, brushing his teeth by the dormitory bathroom sink, when Lupin came in, old pyjamas short and baggy on his long legs and knobby knees, and lay a golden egg on the white porcelain before him. 

_______________

The streaked white marble of the foyer lay before him, the very same as it had the year before. Small groups of men scattered themselves about the entryway, greeting each other, tipping caps to cries of “Wymark, old boy!” and “Jude, it’s been an age!”, portkeys deposited in a basket held by a naked woman, long dark hair in waves around her shoulders, her eyes an empty green. 

Music drifted from deeper within the manor house, low rumblings of laughter and the sounds of clinking glasses occasionally filtering through. There was an aire as if the celebrations, as if the rites, had never paused a moment in their absence, as if this place had simply stayed, suspended, a party that had yet to cease. 

It reminded him so much of Baudelaire, and he took a moment to hate how familiar that felt. It was not difficult for him to flit about these places. Balls, parties, suarees, he had the mannerisms beaten into him from such a young age that all these functions became just that, functions, and he let his instincts take hold. Sirius Black and all his raucous audacity seemed to fade to the background, replaced with idle fancy and small, insignificant rules, as was custom. 

Sirius adjusted his cuffs beneath the fitted robes that wrapped about his frame, black on black embroidery, hundreds of silk covered buttons from his high collar down his front. The eight pointed star sat loosely around his neck on the thin strip of sky blue ribbon. It had arrived by screech owl later that night with a note from his father, and Sirius had let it rest, glittering in the palm of his hand, before stoically obliging, ignoring all the questions from his gaping fellows. 

They, too, had whispered amongst themselves as he showered and dressed. He’d let them watch as he fastened every button, letting each slip through working fingers. He’d let them see. Somehow, it was easier than speaking. The vow did not seem to mind as much that they saw, as long as his breaths never lent themselves to speech. 

_ Ne déçoit pas. _

His fathers handwriting on the thick cardstock was loud enough. He’d left the note with James, who’d stared down at it, brow deeply furrowed, as if he couldn’t imagine such a command from a father to their son. He’d left them then, walking out from his dormitory, down to the great hall, out into the lawn. He walked into the gathering dark of the sloping lawns until the egg glowed blue in his hand and whisked him off to the South. To Wales. 

Another woman ran her hand across his shoulders, his thick cloak of sable falling away and into her arms, held against her naked chest. He didn’t look at her but he could feel her gaze upon him, worshipful and bare, just as she was. Memories seemed to curdle within him. He tried hard not to think of Harfang Longbottom on the stairs that swept up from the foyer to the rooms beyond. He tried not to wonder where the gala he had chosen was. What her name might be. 

“Young master Black,” came a gravelled, smoke-hardened voice just behind him, “nice of you to join us this year.” He chuckled deeply a moment, pulling black leather gloves from hands with thin skin and liver spots that Sirius hated that he remembered. “Didn’t think you’d manage after last.” The speaker let the same woman who’d collected Sirius’s sable cape unfasten the front of his own dark velvet inverness, the inside of which revealed Robin’s egg satin. “Then again, I suppose one’s first Ishtar is always the most difficult. Gets easier every year, if I’m honest.” 

Sirius inclined his head toward the man, Gervaise Ollivander, one of the seven sons who had inherited a vast and ancient wand-making enterprise. “Blessings on you from my family to yours.” 

“Oh, stop with that nonsense.” He snorted indignantly, waving away the gala who seemed incessantly drawn to the sound of coins in his deep pockets. “I’ve got to find your father tonight and give him a piece of my mind about this deal he’s made with Crouch. It’s fucking my vaults over properly.” He slapped her hands away and handed over his umbrella and cane. “Blessings, indeed. You have so much to learn, still, kid.” He ambled off, still grumbling about things Sirius didn’t quite hear. 

“Don’t mind him.” Rhys Fawley had arrived with his brother, Parker, and the two of them, devilishly handsome in modern robes, seemed to sweep Sirius along with them and down toward the noises of those already gathered. “Can’t stand anyone outbidding him, and well, your family is famous for deep pockets and stubbornness. Quite a bad combination in a bidding war.” Rhys ruffled Sirius’s fastidiously gelled back hair and laughed heartily, the two brothers seeming to shine with the thought of it. 

He followed them across the foyer and down the passage to the grand dining room he remembered from the year before, a long high table of oak that stretched impossibly down a stately dark paneled room with light green wallpaper. The table was set for fifty, and about half of the attendees were already seated, some clustered about each other, others leaning on sideboards and chatting with other decadently robed men. 

Sirius saw his father at the far end of the room, standing by uncle Cygnus and grandfather Pollux, all of them looking so uncharacteristically at ease, laughing and grinning over aperitifs. Arcturus was even chatting with Cantankerous Nott, who, to Sirius’s amazement, had seemed to survive yet another year and was looking as classically unpleasant as ever. 

“My son.” Orion called to Sirius when he saw him making his way toward them. “What a pleasure to see my eldest here.” 

“Father.” Sirius said, nodding to Orion and his family around him. All of the thoughts he’d had, the concerns, the questions about the hare seemed to slip into the dark background, and he was far more intrigued by the warm, near kind, way in which he’d been greeted. Orion seemed to radiate good spirits, even bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet. Business, it seemed, had been more than good. The family Black was thriving, and here was his father, orchestrating. His eyes were hungry and bright and there was a moment between them that felt tight and hungry like when he and Gideon bowed their heads together before a match. He felt warm.

Bells rang in the distant recesses of the house and the men, already shedding various layers of formal wear like stuffy cravats and long, trailing robes, seated themselves around the ancient oak table. Sirius sat with his hands in his lap, passively listening to the conversations around him as Basil Selwyn bickered with his brother Wymark over ministerial security procurement procedure, his gaze sliding from one piece of silverware to another, their sterling silver bodies etched with floral motifs and the assorted, hidden, hints of the bodies of women. 

Around him, gala served them, as they had the year before, forearms tremulous as they carried heavy platters of hors d'oeuvres and poured the first of the wines. They started him less, and his attention was quickly devoured by Mortimer, the eldest of the Lestranges, standing from his place off cent re to the western length of the massive table. 

“Gents of blood as pure as the river between our worlds, another Ishtar we gather.” He raised his freshly poured goblet and the men around the table mirrored him, a whisper of “pay the goddess and be merry” snaked around the room, slanted and skew half smiles on many of the cleanly shaven faces. Sirius copied his father, his lips slow to form the words, only just a hint of familiarity from the year before guiding his tongue. 

Mortimer went on, his lean frame seeming to hunch forward in great bodily delight, his goblet still raised. His two sons sat on either side of him, seeming to lean back, smirking, lounging in their carved oak chairs, Rabastan with his elbow on the table to keep his goblet high. 

“This year, as we all know, is an exciting time to be one of our number. This fraternity of ours grows stronger as forces are garnered to purge our world of what ails it, and I am eager to see how we flourish and prosper in the months ahead. Let this Ishtar be a time of growth and the strengthening of our bonds, our ties, our commitment to our common power.” 

“To purity.” They all poured out together, many drinking heavily from their chalices, smacking lips on the bitter, fermented fruit. Conversations between groups seemed to spill over into the void left as Mortimer regained his seat, and Sirius found himself swept into the graveled tones of Everett Parkinson, seated just to his left. 

“This gent comes up from Albania, not even six months ago I’ve heard, and he’s caused such a stir amongst the middle ranks.” He paused to dip his circular spoon into the thick stew before him, gently scooping away from himself the hearty broth, pieces of rabbit meat swimming between carrots and chopped celery. It was almost dainty the way he brought it to his lips and sucked it in. “You know, how many times has it happened before? All it takes is someone with a great aesthetic, just a bit of skill in magic and far more in oration, and the poor bastards with a half step advantage over their fellows are whipped into a frenzy.” 

“It was Grindewald in our day,” remarked a blasé Peregrine Shacklebolt, former head of the department of international magical cooperation, long since retired on a hefty pension he hardly needed to touch, “that man was an absolute con, but how the poor, unfortunate folk loved to listen to him talk about all the power they could have. More powerful than all the firewhisky in the British Isles, that is.” He deftly picked from within the clamped-shell a heavily buttered snail, his two-tined escargot fork seeming to float the creature from deep within it’s supposed refuge. He made it look easy, but the last time Sirius had tried that very same technique, he’d splashed parsley butter across his formal robes and his mother had sent him home for Kreacher to pour boiling water across the stain, his clothes still fastened tightly around him. 

Sirius watched Peregrine Shacklebolt then turn to his cousin, Rupert, the two of them trading memories of how it’s always the lower middle class who found themselves soldiers in a war that will never find them richer for it. Their slow and gentle movements were so reminiscent of his Professor, but their words were hardened, their position from atop vast vaults affording them a well-distanced pity for those who still suckled at such a deceptive teat in the name of their hunger. Sirius wondered how distantly they were related, and sessions from his younger years seemed to recall that these two brothers had a far more British lineage that had mixed persistently with the Selwyn and Parkinson lines. 

Several more men of well documented breeding took their turns standing with a goblet, chalice or flute to make toasts and declarations. Grayson MacMillan even raised a quaich he seemed to have brought himself, which he raised and drank from after Clarence Flint agreed to vote in his favour at the upcoming hearing on the ancestral wealth and inheritance tax. It was all in ceremony of course, as no one, Clarence Flint included, who sat around that particular oak table would ever vote for the redistribution of the family vaults in the unfortunate but inevitable reality of a patriarch’s death. 

It was halfway through the main course, cockentrice, that absolute abomination, that Sirius turned to see his father, picking apart pieces of the suckling pig, greedy and gleeful at the way he could dismember the portmanteau of flesh. 

“I’ve heard he isn’t even Albanian. He’s a Brit. Just thought he’d go away and come back, probably to hide something horrendous in his lineage or upbringing so he’d think we’d all be none the wiser.” Orion was speaking thickly around mouthfuls of the pig. 

Cygnus, on his other side, was similarly carving into the rooster below. “Brother mine, I don’t care what cesspool he’s from, it’s like he got his grubby little foreign fingers on the old twenty eight chapter rules and bylaws.” He paused, letting a gala lean across him to refill his goblet, his gaze and thoughts momentarily distracted. “Like he’s desperate to be one of us. Sad, but if he’s effective at turning public sentiment, I’m not here to complain. Let him do the work while we make the gold.” His eyes followed the gala as she moved away to serve the Parkinson brothers. Orion huffed in apparent agreement, letting the issue due with his renewed interest in the meat before him. 

“Did you hear,” added Jude Parkinson from across his brother’s plate, “he’s been asking everyone to refer to him as some french term - Voldemort?” His smile stretched all the way up to his eyes over his soft voice and round cheeks. “What do you make of it, Orion? What kind of name is that?” 

The three elder Blacks all stifled laughs together, Arcturus pointing his own wand to his throat with a garbled “ _ anapneo _ ” to clear the bolus he’d inhaled. 

“Well, whatever he is, he’s not French. Got a flair for the dramatic, though, that’s obvious.” Orion smirked over his goblet. “Flight of death, I think he means by it.” 

Cygnus dabbed his cloth napkin across his sweating face, still laughing softly. “Very theatrical. Obviously, we should all be very afraid.” 

Everett and Jude Parkinson both joined in on the soft laughter, and Sirius felt some of the fear that the rest of the wizarding world seemed to carry around ebbing away. It was obvious that same fear had not touched the men of old blood families. 

“Keep the mockery to a minimum though, if Lestrange over there hears you, he’ll have a whole speech for us all. They’re all smitten apparently, the whole family.” Jude Parkinson wrinkled his nose and went back to daintily spearing the roast vegetables with his fork. “But, we all know how they simper for theatre. They’re just a hairs breath from being as unhinged as the Gaunts once were, I hear.” 

Sirius let the laughter around him peter out, finding an excuse to finish his third glass of wine. It was too sweet and roiled uncomfortably in his stomach while his cheeks grew hot and his mouth more lax. He found it easy to start slipping into the comfortable apathy that seemed to ripple around the table, around the manor house, this small slice of Wales where nothing seemed to matter and everything could be bought and paid for in gold. 

The desert of pear, baked with walnuts and honey, was too tempting for Sirius to pass up, his inhibitions and mistrust seeming to dissipate in the aftermath of many small snifters of expensive cognac. The conversation flowed around the same topics; gold, blood status, ministry gossip and who could be bought and for what price. Faces became ruddied and more and more men leaned back in their chairs and became looser and looser with their words. Even Gervaise Ollivander seemed to have forgiven Caspar Crouch’s imposition on his holdings. Sirius watched the two of them clink glasses and share a deep belly laugh over what must have been a very raunchy joke told by Heinrich Bulstrode, though he was too far down the table to properly hear the details. 

At the close of dinner, the men migrated, as was custom, to the smoking room and library, shedding even more layers of tightly buttoned vestments, their cufflinks forgotten for the ease of rolled up sleeves and more and more collars opening at the throats. There became a similar increased interest in the gala as they poured themselves around the room, attendant to any wish, kneeling and crawling before men to bring cigars or to simply display their boundless servitude. 

Sirius wandered off down one of the dimly lit halls lined with covered portraits to visit the loo beneath the servants stairs. He leaned his hand against the wall as he drained himself, unsteady on his feet, full of wine and cognac and just a hint of sherry. He’d even occasioned himself a draw (or perhaps several) on one of the long, thin metal pipes that he’d watched Winston Travers suck the blue grey smoke from, the one he’d cooked from poppies himself, which made Sirius’s limbs wonderfully heavy and his mouth decidedly sweet. 

When the talk turned in the green room from politics to gossip and the grins became all the meaner, Sirius heaved himself from his deep leather chair, made his excuses, and fumbled his way back up to bed. He couldn’t stand to sit and listen to the acid words about mudbloods and blood traitors waft about the room, not when they made him shrink and pull away from his own gut and imagine guilt running down his skin in rivulets, making rivers of his dishonesty. Sometimes he thought he heard Lilly’s voice, shrill and cutting and not nearly as mean as he deserved. 

He made his way upstairs and to the bedroom marked Sirius Black, a key waiting to be turned in the lock. It clicked smoothly and easily, rotating the mechanism as he spun the brassy metal with pearly blue ribbon attached. 

The room was simple and clean, and he disrobed quickly and easily, eager to fall into bed and pretend that unconsciousness could erase the burden of knowing the things that he knew, the walnuts and the pears and the way the world worked, power and gold and cruelty making fools of them all. 

In the shower he imagined he could survive a few more days of this, making nice and letting the adults talk around him of their ways, letting his father glance at him from across the room with fondness, even pride. Letting himself believe he was safe from things that others feared, even though he already carried so much fear like an old friend he’d forgotten to give it a name and a meaning anymore. 

He let himself acknowledge that it felt good to be the powerful one, for once. To have control. To be safe. It felt good. 

He could do it. He could survive. He tried hard not to think about the things that Professor Shafiq had said, the way some day he’d have to come to terms with what he could and could not allow, with the way the world relied on those who benefitted from evil to be complacent, to be stoic guardians against change. Peregrine and Rupert Shacklebolt and the way they perched upon their gold, bored by and disinterested in the desperate clawing of the masses below came to mind. It was an ugly thing to imagine. It made him feel less good, and less right, and it was much simpler not to think about it at all. 

Emerging from the shower with a towel wrapped about his waist, Sirius padded back into the bedroom to find not one but two gala spread across his bed, their hands gently draped across each other, idle fingers of the redhead running through the long dark hair of the other, who looked up at Sirius from dark brown, almond shaped eyes. She had freckles across the bridge of her nose and a gap between her teeth, and for fuck’s sake Sirius thought idly to himself, water still dripping from his hair and onto the floorboards beneath, she looked nearly as young as he. 

“Master Black,” started the redhead, kneeling on the bed, sitting back on her feet and hands across her pale thighs, “your father sent us. He said you had gold for us. For Ishtar. We’d love to help you win the favour of the goddess.” She leaned forward as she spoke, extending her hand out toward him, as if she meant to pull him forward by the snugly tucked edge of the towel he wore. As if she could draw him in. Draw him under. 

It was very convincing the way she spoke. It almost, almost, seemed as though she believed it. Wanted it. As if she were simply trying to charm and beguile him, a siren all of her own making. She even had a laugh and a smile and a hunger about her that could suit her features, and perhaps she knew how to flirt with men in the world beyond the manor house and magic that knew a new manner of cruelties. 

“Come, Master Black,” she reached the tips of her fingers out toward him and opened her mouth, “feed us.” 

She even closed her eyes, which helped Sirius not think about how blank and how empty they looked, and made it easier for him to pretend she really wanted this. She wanted to be held captive, naked, for days on end, in a fog of coercive and manipulative spellwork that kept her soft and compliant, kept her mouth moving and saying the things she was meant to say. Saying the things that men like him wanted to hear. 

He thought about the woman from the year before. The way she had comforted him. The way it had felt kind of her and caring. The way it had let him ignore what it meant. Ignore that it was magic that curled about her throat and her tongue and made her lie for his benefit. Made her gift herself so he could pretend it’s what she wanted. 

Gods, the truth was so much more bitter in his mouth, so much more heavy and cumbersome to carry. It was the truth that had snuck back and into his dreams of her all year. The way he never knew her name, only the folds of her body and her smile and the way she disappeared beneath the surface of something the men of the house would find palatable. Would find good enough to tear apart and eat, like they did the suckling pig and the rooster and the hare. 

“Get out.” Her hand that was reaching to him fell, and so did the smile and the way her features looked at him with hunger. She rose from the bed and left, her steps purposeful and no hint of remorse within her. Only obedience. 

Sirius swayed on the spot a moment, the cognac and the blue grey smoke sweet and sour and devious all at once, and the almond shaped eyes of the youngest gala he’d seen seeming to stare right back at him, her lips parted so that the gap between her teeth was clear and present and made her look all the younger still, but he guessed she must be about seventeen. 

She had none of the charm, the charisma, the practiced seduction of the redhead who had been so equally pleased to walk away, to find another man within the walls of the house to slip gold between her lips and watch her cheeks hollow as she sucked it, so hungrily. No, the girl with almond shaped eyes and freckles across her nose stared at him, empty and unsure. 

He turned away from her, equally as wrongfooted and lost and having no template on which to fall back on for this situation. What was proper of him here? How was he, young Master Black, expected to proceed? 

He padded to a tall armoire and from within it pulled a terry cloth robe, the kind he’d expect to find on holiday. Moving back to the bed he handed it to her, her face still so open, so blank and pure. “Put this on,” he paused, “please.” 

She slid her arms through the sleeves and draped it across her form, pulling the wrap of fabric about her form. Her expression hadn’t changed, her lips still parted slightly, gap in her teeth still obvious. Glaring. 

“What’s your name?” He made sure to ask it first, kneeling down onto the soft linens that had already been folded back, awaiting warm bodies. She followed suit and copied him, slipping her still bare legs between the sheets and letting him pull a blanket up to cover her chest, her shoulder. 

“Rhiannon.” Her voice was soft and breathy, and she seemed to seek his gaze as she answered. 

“Witch.” Sirius said it automatically, smiling to himself. All names had meaning and he’d been made to learn so many in his youth, it fell naturally from his mouth with a smile at the cruelty of it. It was strange the things muggles had done. The way they’d simultaneously fallen in love with all things magical, naming their children in the hope they grew with the gift of the craft, yet vilified any woman who grew into power they could not understand. The great irony, of course, was that they almost always killed other muggles, never witches themselves. 

“Do you believe in magic?” He asked softly, laying his wand on the bedside table after twitching it ever so slightly to put out the lights. 

She smiled this time, her nose wrinkling in disbelief. “Of course not.” 

Sirius watched her, beautiful almond eyes and the freckles across her nose and cheeks. “Me neither.” 

He didn’t manage to stay awake long that first night. He asked her a few things, watching her respond. He asked her if she would stand up for what’s right. If she’d use her power and influence for good, even though it might mean great danger. She answered easily, freely, as if without any filter. She didn’t believe in magic, and yet, somehow, she believed in the common good. Believed in shared humanity. Believed in the great capacity for humans to do good. She told him she’d never be able to stand by and let evil win the day.

She spoke in her soft and breathy voice about her life. Her days on the farm and her three dogs, who followed her from dawn until dusk, her constant companions while she milked cows and carried flakes of hay. How she lived with a big family and every Tuesday they had takeaway dinners and how her father taught her to drive the old farm pickup truck, and Sirius didn’t have any idea what she was talking about much of the time, but it was beautiful the way she recalled a life that seemed to be drenched in sunlight, in happiness. It seemed to spill from her, the woman beneath, glorious and kind, a history of so many days and nights full of love. 

Rhiannon’s dogs were all mutts from the local shelter. She spoke of them with a fondness that was thick and incessant and Sirius learned all about how Cefin stole cheddar from the breakfast table and Perchyll was afraid of the kind of thunder that seemed to always herald bad news from the East. Perchyll, on those nights that the sky seemed to tear apart beyond the clouds, would sleep curled behind Rhiannon’s knees between Scout and Cefin, trembling all the while. Scout, she thought, was older than she was, and she softened his food with water to ease the work of his toothless gums. 

It was sometime around midnight that Sirius told her to hold still while he reached for his wand, while he traced it down the form of her shoulder and waist and hips beneath the blankets, thinking about just how exactly one might unspin the tendrils that made her so blank and empty and so surprisingly, refreshingly honest. He told her to hold still while he did his best to pick apart the _imperius_ wrapped around her, tight and snug and accustomed. 

After a while, her eyes still blank and his body and mind aching with tiredness, he gave up, bid her goodnight, and drifted into a deep, forgetful sleep. 

\----------------

“We’ll have to adjust the rates for the first quarter, but we will surely be in a good position going into the Wizengamot’s yearly drawing of import tariffs.” Orion Black was stretched out on the red velvet bench of the family growler, a hand rolled cigarette between his lips. His hair was uncharacteristically unkempt, golden-tipped cane of carved bone leaned at his side. 

He’d been talking idle business for hours now, smoking away the rolling hills of the countryside and the pouring rain that stretched across great swathes of English countryside, stone walls and fields of cattle, little farms along muddied roads. The percherons never seemed to tire, marching endlessly forward, their necks flexed deeply and manes braided and topped in red stand-ups. The leather of their harness groaned with the weight of the carriage and the creak of the stretch as they pulled, moving gracefully in perfect tandem. 

It wasn’t long before Hogsmeade seemed to materialise beyond the dense spatter of rain in the eerie gleam of shop front windows and the high street, illuminated for the few villagers who hustled between shops mid-deluge, who parted easily for the shining black calash and the team of black percherons who pulled it. 

It was quiet a long while between them, cigarette smoke bitter and acrid and Sirius dying for his own drag on the thing, but refusing to ask, despite the obvious invitation. He didn’t watch his father, he rather watched the way the rain lay the black hair on the backs of the horses down flat, first in patterns and then, coalescing into a whole, soaking beast. Had it been colder and the rain less thick, he might have seen the steam that rose from their haunches and their necks. Instead, he found his view blurry and obscured. 

“You’ll attend this summer’s ball at the Travers, then?” His father was addressing him directly now, and Sirius found himself answering without noticing.

“Yes, father.” Nothing felt real. He thought about the life he pretended to lead; Honeydukes and Zonko’s, out marauding in the forest with his friends. One, a werewolf. 

“Your mother wants you to have a match made this year. I think it’s about time as well, but she’s busy with her horrid sister and her daughters who both wanted June weddings, so you might just have another year of freedom before she turns her sights to you.” He vanished the cigarette and adjusted his coat about himself, fully at his ease. They were passing between the winged boars and up the wet stones of the long drive, the sound of hooves making patterns of the earth louder now. “It doesn’t much matter who know, our family is desirable to any of the old blood. Even a Gryffindor and you’ll match nicely, and I don’t give a damn as long as the gold stays high in the vaults.” 

Sirius had no answer, so he watched the sloping lawns of Hogwarts and the rain that soaked them. The quidditch pitch in the distance. The forest edge. Eventually, the growler came to a halt, the sun low and the mist eerily illuminated as it hung about the valleys that flanked the old stone fortress, and Sirius found himself stepping down from the cosseted world within, the rain falling about his hair and shoulders now. 

“_Sois sage, mon fils_.” Came Orion’s voice, muffled from the placement of another rolled cigarette, which he covered with one hand as he raised a flame between his fingers. “_Toujours pur._” 

______________

Like nothing had changed, and life at Hogwarts had gone on in this charmed and misty light under heavy spring rains, Sirius found himself trudging back up to his common room and up the stairs to the dormitory. James was just there handing out sweets and baked goods that his mom sent him back with for Easter Sunday, coconut creams and treacle tart. He was in the middle of telling Peter about a game of pick up quidditch with his mates Gordon Twombly and Sheelah Smythe from down the lane. Remus’s bed was hastily made, but empty.    
  
“Sirius Black, you wet and mangy hound. We missed you terribly. Was all right and in order for your Easter with Master Orion Black of the ancient and most noble house of Blacks?” He put on a mocking face for this line, but gave it up to grin at his friend. “Hope it wasn’t anything too traumatic.” James was all his bright white smile against dark cheeks for the first few moments, like nothing could be amiss in the light and loving world into which he was born. 

Sirius couldn’t stand to look at him and all his joy, so he looked down instead and found himself unbuttoning the hundred silk covered buttons that had lined his ridiculous formal wear, that had sewn him into another self for three long days and two horrid nights. It was quiet in the room when he heard himself crying. Sobbing, really. His fingers still trailing down the line of stupid, horrible, silken embroidered buttons, his face covered in tears and his breath erratic and choking.    
  
“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” James’s soft voice was just before him, though his head was still hanging down, his chest still hurting with the way it burned so much to try and breathe. 

Sirius wanted to say that they had killed her. That it was his fault. That it had worked, his magic, his spells, his stupid, unthinking experiment. It had worked and sometime the next day the _imperius_ had fallen away and she had awoken to the horror of Ishtar. She had been scared and naked and confused and bloody and terrified by the time he had found himself wandering into the servants rooms behind the great kitchen, following the sounds of raised voices, laughter and screams. She had looked to him with her almond shaped eyes and the freckles across her cheeks and she’d cried so hard for someone to save her. And he hadn’t. He’d been a coward. She had been naked and in pain, and he’d turned away from her gaze and looked away from the way Rabastan Lestrange flayed her. 

Sirius wanted to tell James he was scared. He was sorry that he was scared. He was sorry that he had not saved her. He wanted to tell him that he hated the men of Ishtar, abhorred them, was disgusted by them. But, he wanted, too, to confess his fear. 

Sirius wanted to say that it was horrible to watch the men of Ishtar laugh and smile and some of them grow stiff and interested in the way she fought and cried. The way his father even seemed to devour her. How he was too cowardly to speak. Too cowardly to leave the room. How he looked away from her almond eyes and her freckles and thought about each and every rune and what they meant and how to arrange them together so that nothing this heinous would ever happen again. 

But Sirius couldn’t say anything because his throat rasped and his skin began to grow hot and tight and raised in lines around his forearms. He couldn’t do anything but cough and splutter and draw in sharp and short breaths over and over as he sobbed into James’s shoulder, his hands still on buttons that were covered in fine silk embroidery and that had held him so tightly together and now came so easily undone. 

And the only thing Sirius could manage, the only thing the unbreakable vow didn’t seem to care that he told them, the thing that the orchestrators of Ishtar had not thought to cover, was just that “her name was Rhiannon. And she had three stray dogs she loved with all her heart.”

And Sirius cried the whole night through while James hugged his friend and stroked his hair and told him he never had to go back, ever again. 


	18. Some Things, Sacrificed

_ April 14, 1974 _

He had left school quite abruptly two days after Sirius had, with his golden egg and eerie stoicism. McGonagall had caught him on the way to breakfast with James and Peter, all debating in hushed tones what it was Sirius couldn’t tell them. Peter was convinced it must be something horrid like human sacrifice, and James scoffed at the notion that any family function could be so terrible. They were startled into silence when their professor’s clipped tones cut through the entrance hall, calling Remus to her. 

She had bade him to pack a bag, giving him no information other than he was to meet his father in ten minutes at the leaky cauldron. Before he knew it, before he could even call to Peter and James to please watch after Freya, he was being ushered through the floo in her office and stumbling into his dad’s steadying grip. Lyall had apparated them into the little wood behind his gran’s village, causing Remus’s stomach to lurch and churn and he was grateful he had missed his breakfast. 

They walked in mostly silence through the little village they had once lived in when he was a child, his feet treading the familiar route and his mind lost in apprehension about what lay ahead. His gran lived in a small stone building that looked much like all the other small stone buildings that lined the small, cobbled lane. The houses were close together, some dotted with window baskets of spring flowers, others with windows shrouded in lacy curtains.

Entering the house behind his dad, the darkness of the sitting room startled him. This was not the house he remembered from his childhood, filled with sunlight and neat little ceramic statues of gnomes and fairies or the crystal bowls of candies and chocolates that once dotted the clean surfaces. Instead, the curtains were drawn and a thick layer of dust coated the shelves and figurines, obscured by the darkness. The crystal bowls were empty. 

They were greeted by the same priest that had spoken at his mum’s funeral and his gaze flicked over Remus in a way that made his hands sweat and scars feel hot on his face. After perfunctory politeness, his dad turned to a nurse that was emerging from his gran’s room, muttering in low tones, and Remus took his chance, slipping quietly through the kitchen and out into the back garden

He had hoped the sight of his gran’s garden would lighten the heaviness in his heart, lift the tension from his skin a bit, but the sight of several pigeons lazily picking their way through the overgrown and weedy vegetable patch that had not yet been prepared for spring plantings, knocked the strength from his legs and he sat with a heavy sigh. 

As a child, when he had lived just down the road from here, Remus would help his gran weed the beds, dig the soil over with his little trowel, and help with earnest fingers to push the seeds into the moist earth. His gran, in her lacy white sun hat and grass-stained dungarees, told him stories about the fairies that would help the seeds grow. About what each plant was used for, and what recipes the fairies liked. 

After they planted their rows of squash and beans, cabbages, and peas, he would be instructed by his gran to pick tiny bouquets of flowers. Clover and dandelions, violas, and mint, and she would tie them with bits of twine and arrange them delicately around a cup of honied milk, nestled in the freshly turned soil, as a gift for passing fairies. And he would watch with big, serious eyes, nodding fervently along with the story, deeply immersed in the ritual. 

The snap and creak of the back door drew his mind away from wondering who would tend to the vegetable patch now, and his dad sat beside him with a deep sigh, hat in hand. 

“Gran never had proof fairies were real,” Remus said, without really meaning to, “but she believed in them anyway.”

“Muggles are smarter than we give them credit for.” His dad said gently.

“Do fairies really like honied milk? We haven’t covered them yet in Care of Magical Creatures,” he turned to his dad, head resting on his hands and his thumb rubbing the underside of his chin. His dad looked tired, sad, as he had for what felt like years, now. 

Lyall noded and cracked a weak smile. “Your mum used to leave out gifts for the fairies, too, you know, but once I told her they were real and what trouble they could be, she stopped. Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t said anything. It took the magic away for her.”

Remus turned back to watch the pigeons, a sense of loss gnawing at him. 

“It’s time now, Remus.” Lyall said softly with a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “The priest says we should be with her.”

Taking a deep breath, he nodded and stood, taking a moment to dust off his faded grey trousers, and followed his dad into the quiet of the house. 

______________

_ April 15, 1974 _

The spring sun wasn’t yet strong enough to warm Remus through the bite of the chilled breeze that rustled new leaves on old branches, but he tipped his face up to it anyways, eyes closed and shoulders heavy, the trunk behind him solid and rough. 

Errant banks of nearly melted snow hedged the wooded path he had ambled down, icy water making the packed earth slick beneath his chucks as he cut through the birchwood behind his gran’s house to sit beneath the boughs of familiar oaks and birches to collect his thoughts.

His thumb rubbed the crisp parchment in his hands over the dried ink of a harried scrawl, smudged and unkept, the writer frantic to get the words down. Claudia had snuck carefully into his gran’s doily covered kitchen, dotted with more of the same ceramic gnomes and fairies, through an open window draped in lace, where Remus had been preparing tea. He had dropped the tea spoon with a clatter at the sight of her hopping covertly towards him across the formica counters, her bulging eyes fixed intently on a platter of rusks. Whispers of the unsuspecting muggle neighbours and mourners drifted through the house from the sitting room, conversing in low, sombre tones, unawares that anything odd may be happening in the kitchen.

He hurriedly untied the message and quickly picked up Claudia, before anyone, let alone the presiding priest, could be any the wiser. Checking covertly for witnesses, he snuck out the backdoor and through the neglected garden and towards the woods.

Remus loved the smell of spring and wet earth, of cold air and hopeful shoots of greenery making their way triumphantly skyward, and he breathed deeply as Claudia took off from his arm, off to find herself some breakfast. The change of scenery from the oppressive quiet of his gran’s house was a welcome one. After sitting beside his gran’s bed for hours, waiting in the odd liminal space between life and death, waiting for her to take his last breath, Remus had begun to feel trapped in a twilight zone of sad visitors and doting churchgoers. He’d had not a single moment since she had died in the early hours of the morning to process any of it. 

A snapping of a twig in the distance pricked his ears and, without thinking, he smelled the air, searching beyond the decomposition of the forest floor and lily of the valleys. 

He smiled to himself— a doe. And, although he couldn’t see her, he could sense her, smell her, just off to the left beyond the tangled mess of brambles. It felt odd to be back here, in the little wild wood he had explored so much as a young child, before they had moved, before Greyback, even. 

He turned his attention back to the parchment in his hands to re-read the words James had sent to him. 

_ Moons, _

_ How are you? Why did you need to leave so suddenly? Min wouldn’t say. Is everything alright? _

_ I’m worried about Sirius. I think he’s in trouble at home. I mean, we know he is, but I think it’s worse than we thought. I’m pretty sure someone put an unforgivable curse on him, Peter saw the welts on his arms when he tried to tell us what happened. He came back last night a right mess. _

_ We need to do something. _

_ Your brothers in arms, _

_ James and Peter _

Remus let his head thud back against the deeply grooved oak a little harder than he meant to. Thoughts of Sirius, of his gran, of the moon, of secrets and his friends, and his place amid it all swirled uncomfortably in his mind. As the little doe picked her way deeper into the trees, away from where Remus sat, he wondered how and when it became so complicated, so convoluted, and difficult. 

Remus and his parents had lived in a quaint stone house not a five minute walk from his gran when he was little, down a little lane in this small village, dotted with hydrangeas and elderberries.

His fingers shredded leaf mulch as he listened carefully to the sounds of the forest, mulling over the memories of that time and wondering if Sirius had ever had a fond recollection of his childhood home. If he ever had the space to run, free and wild like he did at Hogwarts. He wondered if there were woods near Sirius’s home, like these, and if he ever wandered them, hand in hand with his mum or his gran. 

He remembered the years spent here, in these woods, in this town, with tenderness and an unrepentant ache for what could have been. What life he could have had, had Greyback not crawled into his window all those years ago, leaving his left hip disfigured and a fear of the celestial tides lodged deep in his gut. 

Even after the bite, they tried to make it work in this rural village, his childhood home, for nearly a year. Tried to maintain their life of normalcy in his mum’s hometown with her book club on Tuesdays, and brunch on Sundays, with his creche school friends and big open spaces to run, like any carefree child should. 

But, the moons had taken their toll on his mum in those early days. His scars and bruises too numerous to hide, his transformations so violent and loud, they broke through most of the silencing charms his dad had tried to layer over their home. In the end, they moved to Moreton-on-Marsh, cloistered beyond lonely poplars and weather beaten apple trees. To a place sequestered from worried friends and neighbours, away from other children or prying eyes. To a life of isolation and relative safety.

But, most of all, since they left, he had missed the closeness of his gran. He missed her fastidious knitting and sharp wit, her humour and unconditionality. He missed having a place to go when his parents were busy, or distracted, or uninterested. Someone to sit quietly with and enjoy their company.

His heart lurched again at the thought that Sirius may have never known that ache of love, of peaceful moments, of acceptance and belonging. That his dear friend spent his moments amid his family, filled with fear and loneliness rather than with kindness. 

Remus’s family certainly wasn’t picture perfect. His mum had often been distracted and too lost in her own world to consider the needs of her child as often as she should have, and his dad clearly wasn’t a model parent by any stretch of the imagination with his tremulous hands and bloodshot eyes. And, although love wasn’t the only thing a child needed to flourish, it certainly helped ease the burden of existence to know that you were loved, even adored at times. 

As flawed as his parents were, he could say, for what it was worth, that they loved him. He knew Sirius couldn’t say the same, and that truth burnt bitter and thick in his throat as he pulled a pen out of his pocket and flipped the parchment over. 

_ To my brothers in arms, _

_ We knew something was up, didn’t we? Are you sure it’s an unforgivable? Seems unbearable to think a parent could put their kid in that situation. We’ll have to be careful, as we don’t want to put him in any more danger, but you’re right, there must be some way we can help. _

_ Gran died yesterday. That’s why dad picked me up, she wanted me with her in the end. I may miss the first day back, so please take notes for me. I don’t want to fall behind in Transfiguration. _

_ Yours dutifully and faithfully, _

_ RJL _

_ Ps. Don’t let Sirius spend too much time alone in the woods. He gets a bit feral if left to his own devices. _

Remus thought about Sirius wandering alone amid the dense trees with nothing but his haunted memories to keep him company. He worried his bottom lip, his thumb stroking the new, unhealed scar on the side of his jaw. The last moon had been one of the most brutal yet. After his experience of being wild and unencumbered in the great vastness of the forbidden forest, to then be put back into the confines of the dilapidated shack, the wolf had railed against him. Biting and clawing, desperate and vicious. 

The next day he had awoken battered and bruised, his lip split and ribs aching. His exhaustion had reached new and debilitating heights. 

He tried to push all his warring thoughts aside. Sirius, the moon, his gran, a worried James, and his defeated wolf, all vying in his mind for a place to be heard, to be seen and placated. 

Pursing his lips, he whistled softly, the sound cutting through the melody of birds in the little wood, calling for Claudia, hoping she was still near enough to hear him. After a few tries with no lopsided owl in sight, he gave it up as a bad job and folded the note, stuffing it into his pocket to send later. 

Another twig snapped in the distance, but this time it made the hairs on the back of Remus’s neck stand up. And, as he lifted his head slightly into the breeze, focused and taut, he smelled them before he heard their voices. 

He didn’t know how he knew, but the scent that flooded his senses told him that, without a doubt, he wasn’t the only werewolf in these woods. There were three of them walking towards him, their voices getting louder and more clear. They were a jovial bunch, laughing and barking out into the cold spring air.

His mind reeled. He didn’t know what to do. He was half terrified, half desperately intrigued. He had never met others before. Never really thought about what they must be like.

As they came into view around the bend, they all fell silent as they saw Remus, sitting there beneath the great oak. Remus saw that they were older than he was, but not by much. Two of them looked school aged yet. He saw, as the oldest with the wild red curls and a ghostly pale face in the middle, flared her nostrils curiously, watching him, her hands deep in the pockets of an oversized oilskin coat. 

The younger boy to her left, with grey eyes and dark skin, cracked a smile as he nudged her with his elbow.

The third looked less friendly as he squared his shoulders and tried to step past the girl. “Where’s your pack?” He asked, none too gently, as the girl gripped his arm.

“My what?” Remus cocked his head, his mind starting to work. The boy with the grey eyes smiled even larger as the red head shot Remus a quizzical look. 

“Your pack,” she repeated for him. “Unless we’re mistaken.”

Remus didn’t answer right away. He felt stupid, suddenly, for still sitting on the ground as the three of them looked down at him with their knowing smirks and clever eyes. 

“You’re not.” He finally said, clamoring to his feet and brushing the leaf litter from his trousers.

The girl stepped forward, breathing deeply and watching him closely. She prowled closer, her smile somewhere between predatory and playful and Remus was unaccountably intrigued. She moved with ease in her body, the shadow of the wolf just under the surface. 

“You’re unwell,” she said conclusively as she halted a few paces before him. 

“Excuse me?” He asked, unable to hide his defensiveness, arms crossing over himself. The other two were now coming closer, sniffing the air curiously as they came, their brows furrowed. 

“Of course he is,” came the surly one, gesturing vaguely at him, his haughty tones and arched eyebrow at complete odds with his holy and worn denim pants, “he doesn’t have a pack, look at him.”

“He must have a pack, he can’t not have a pack—” defended the boy with the grey eyes, a gold earring gleaming in his left ear. Remus didn’t like how they were speaking about him as if he were a stray dog. 

“What in Merlin’s name are you lot talking about?” Remus demanded, clenching his fists unintentionally. 

Recognition flashed in all of their eyes and the redhead spoke, her arms crossed. “Ah, I see. The ministry has you isolated, do they?”

“What?” Remus asked again, stupidly.

“I’m a muggle,” she said bluntly, “Lucian, here is a squib,” she gestured, laying a hand on the shoulder of the boy with the ragged denim, “and Damien is magical, but muggleborn.” 

“But, you’re Hogwarts age,” Remus said confusedly to Damien. 

“I never got my owl.” Damien shrugged, not looking wholly fussed about it. Remus was sure they didn’t miss the look of incredulity that contorted his face at the thought of someone never getting their acceptance letter. 

“The ministry doesn’t have either of us registered,” The girl cut in, before Remus could pry further. “We keep a low profile and they don’t bother us. It’s the folk that come from magical families that seem to struggle the most, like Lucian, here. They keep you from forming packs and doing what you’re meant to do.”

“And what are we meant to do?” Remus asked, suddenly desperate for the answer. Unaware that he’d been aching to know for years. 

She smiled and shrugged. “Be a wolf.” 

His shoulders dropped, the emptiness in his gut gnawing. “But, I can’t—”

“Not the way you’re living now, you can’t.” Snarled Lucian. “They’re keeping you chained up like a dog, they are. I can smell it. I bet you spent your last moon in a cage—”

“Lucian—” Damien said softly, placing a hand on his arm. “Not everyone is as lucky as we are.”

“I’m in school, I can’t—” Remus interjected feebly.

“Lucky?” Demanded Lucian, ignoring Remus. “We had to fight for our pack. We still have to fight.”

“Yes, Lucian, we know. Calm down, will you?” The redhead said in exasperation before turning her attention back to Remus. She brushed her thick curly hair off of her shoulders and looked him up and down, weighing her words. 

“Kid, you’re a werewolf. You need a pack. You need to be out during the moons. Locking yourself up every month will only make things worse. I see those scars, how thin you are— you need a pack.” 

“I—” Remus tried again, hating her scrutiny. Feeling exposed and like he was somehow failing at the most basic level. He looked more carefully at them, noticing as he did, how few scars they had. How healthy they looked. How radiant and self-assured despite their shabby clothes, and he was filled to the brim with a deep seated jealousy. The wolf in his chest growled a low, guttural sound. 

She took a step forward, her eyes going soft and she reached out for his hand. Pulling the pen from his limp and yielding fingers, she turned his palm upward to write on his pale skin. 

“What’s your name?” She asked, as the pen pressed into his soft palm.

“Remus— Remus Lupin.” He offered, feeling suddenly very stupid about it.

She raised her eyebrows and snorted a laugh. “You’re joking, right? Wolfy McWolf? Really? How has everyone not figured it out?”

He shrugged, mouth dry. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Remus. I’m Breena.” She offered as she continued to move the pen across his skin.

When she was done, she murmured a soft, “There,” releasing his hand and holding out the pen for him. “Whenever you’re ready. That’s where we meet the day before the moon. You need a pack. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” She gestured at the whole of him, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment as he pocketed the pen. 

Lucian had already turned away and began walking further down the path, clearly irritated with the exchange. Damien smiled brightly and waved genially with a, “see you around, Remus.” 

And, finally, Breena stopped surveying him with her knowing gaze and curious smirk as she followed her fellows down the path, her hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her oilskin coat. 

Remus stood there with his ears ringing and scars pulled tight over crawling skin for longer than he would ever admit to anyone. Beneath the boughs of ancient oaks and towering birch trees, he promised himself that one day, he and his pack, James and Sirius and Peter, would be healthy and cared for. Safe and protected. 

One day.

_______________

Back in his bed in Moreton-on-Marsh, his briefcase of books and sketch pads spilled out messily on the floor beside a pile of knitwear he hadn’t bothered to fold, he lay curled on his side, his mum’s crocheted afghan pulled tight around his shoulders. He smelled the musty disuse of his bedding, reminding him that this was no longer his home, or where he felt safest or held. He missed his friends, missed the comfort of Sirius’s antics, Peter’s quiet presence, and James’s perpetual enthusiasm. He even missed Lily and Marlene and their sharp wit and subtle humour, and wished desperately that he were there, with them, rather than in bed in this room filled with memories and thoughts of people that he could no longer reach. 

Remus tried not to think of watching his gran slip into the quietness of death, of the softness of her features or the stillness in her body. He didn’t want to think about the way all the adults looked to him with sad eyes and all the consoling hands that had touched his shoulders, making him feel so observed, so unable to process his feelings or his grief. 

He had loved his gran and wished he could have spent more time with her before she died. Wished that his last memories of her were with her in her garden surrounded by the little gifts she left to the fae, rather than the night he had spent beside her as her breath rattled and her eyes glazed over and the way she couldn’t respond to his presence anymore. 

Remus pressed his face into his pillow, his body tight and trembling and full of jittery nerves and restlessness, not unlike the pull of the moon in the days before his transformation, and let the tears fall. Fall for his gran, for Sirius, for the way he missed his friends, for the distance between him and his father, for the yearning desperation he felt to join the other werewolves in their wild revelry below the full moon. He cried for the overwhelming sensations that crashed over and through him at the thought of his place in the world and how he could possibly continue to move through life when it felt this intense all the time. 

Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep, the gentle chorus of night birds and insects carrying him off into dreams where he could run free and unburdened. 

______________

It felt surreal, almost, how Remus stepped through the floo at the leaky and was suddenly being chivvied out of McGonagall’s office and directly into a stream of students on their way to first period. In a matter of moments, he was in step with the others, who were shoving books and notes and a stack of toast into his arms as they made their way hastily to Charms. As if Remus had never left. 

Later that day, after returning to the dorm, he called for Freya, searching under the beds and behind the long curtains by the window, but she was nowhere to be found. 

“Pete, where’s Freya?” Remus asked as he crouched down to look under the chest of drawers, his knees creaking. 

“Dunno,” he mumbled, digging through his trunk, “she must have run off. Hares don’t belong in a dorm, do they?”

Remus frowned.

“Well, that’s a shame.” He said sincerely. “I should have taken her with me.” He sat heavily on his bed, suddenly so very sad that Freya had decided to leave them. 

“It was probably for the best,” Peter offered consolingly, “she was meant for sacrifice, anyway.”

Remus didn’t miss the side eye Sirius shot Peter, nor the oddly confident conviction with which Peter spoke.

Sirius was quieter than usual, but they didn’t pry. Didn’t want to put him in any more danger than they suspected he was already in. It was strange to see him subdued again, like he had been in the days after his father had once visited, and the weeks following the Easter of the year before. He seemed blunted. Laughed little. Got up to hardly any mischief at all. Sullen and quiet and prone to spending hours at a time looking wistfully out the castle windows to the forest and the rolling mountains beyond. 

When Peter asked to borrow Sirius’s silver knife in potions, which he dithered on about losing over Easter, Sirius handed it over simply, without fanfare, and did not seem to catch the suspicious look that James and Remus shared between furrowed brows. When James brought out the cloak at half past eleven on an otherwise quiet Wednesday evening, Sirius shrugged and let the opportunity to explore the fifth floor and Filch’s office slip on by. When Remus spilled dragon dung fertilizer all inside his shoes one morning in Herbology during a particularly haphazard repotting of a leaping toadstool, Sirius hardly laughed at all. 

Like the times before, however, this quiet, melancholy didn’t stay long. Sirius seemed to rebuild pieces of himself and his boisterous, contrary ways, bit by bit emboldened by the gentle encouragement and comfort of his friends. Of routine. Of a castle that seemed to draw out the brightest pieces of him. April turned to May, and with the warming of the grounds, so too did Sirius seem to come alive again. Though, this too seemed to wax and wane the closer his three friends came to reminding him of the many dark things Sirius carried. 

On top of all their regular homework and responsibilities, they began taking turns scouring the library for resources on unforgivable curses, jotting down ideas and references, research and theories. James was even fool-hardy enough to take his trusted cloak out for a few nights’ stroll in the restricted section, nearly getting caught by a prowling Filch twice, but managing to find a ghastly tome that proved quite insightful. 

_ Binder’s Bidding by Bela Brone _, fully illustrated with far more details than anyone should ever want, not only explained exactly how to perform an unbreakable vows, but explained its structure in such a way that made James believe it was, in fact, possible to break. 

If only they understood half of what the book was talking about. 

While Remus was, of course, worried for his friend, he was nevertheless grateful to have something wholly distracting and consuming and thought with chagrin that he should be getting class credit for all the ancient runes and arithmancy he was having to learn for this endeavour. 

During their now free period, which was once occupied by Elenkrancy, they all managed to sequester themselves on shared breaks to a back corner of the library, sprawled out on thread bare woven rugs, surrounded by scattered books and sheets of parchment. It was during one of these sessions that Remus saw for himself the effects of the curse placed on his friend. After a leading question or two that would take them a hair too close to the truth, trying to divine which direction to take their research, the welts on Sirius’s wrist would blaze hot and red like a raised scratch of someone having dragged their sharpened nails down his soft skin. 

The second time it happened, Sirius dashed down an aisle to puke into a pot plant, and after that, they stopped doing their research when he was around. Instead, they took it in turns and met every few nights after Sirius had fallen asleep to discuss a plan of action. 

But, the problem was, after weeks and weeks of reading, researching, and trying to ask not-so-innocuous questions about semi-legal transfiguration magic of McGonagall during class, they came to the crushing realisation that they were only 14. In their third year of their magical education. This was complicated, ancient magic that was woven into Sirius’s very bones and viscera. And they had honestly no idea how in Merlin’s name they were going to help him. 

“Okay, but— look, mates,” James was saying, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes hard under his glasses. “We think we’ve at least narrowed it down to these options, right?” 

“Yes—”

“No—” Remus and Peter chorused. 

“Yes, Remus, remember? It’s either the veracity vows or the malignant maledictions,”

"No, Pete,” Remus shook his head, pulling out a sheet of parchment covered in diagrams and notes, “we couldn’t rule out the obedience oaths because we don’t know if he was a single recipient or if there were others. We don’t know if Regulus was there, or some cousins or whatever, you know?” 

“Bullocks—” Peter muttered, dropping his head into his open book. “I hate this.”

“We at least know that all of the unbreakable vows have the same basic spell matrix, it’s just these caveats and consequences that are slightly different.” James offered, trying to sound consoling, but missing the mark. 

Remus snorted. “Consequences? They all kill you if you break them, the difference is basically moot. The only sure fire way to make sure Sirius doesn’t die is to wait for the caster to die.”

“Uhg, we can’t wait that long.” Peter groused. “This isn’t fair.”

They sat in silence a moment and Remus picked up the soft tread of bare feet on the stone steps to the dormitory. Before long, Sirius appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes, the fire illuminating a weird sister's t-shirt he nicked from James under his lopsidedly tied silk robe. 

“What are you lot doing, having a seance without me?” Sirius asked, shuffling towards them, his hair skew in a lopsided bun. 

“We can’t decide what demon to summon, perhaps you have a suggestion for us?” James jested. 

Sirius snorted as Peter began collecting their parchment and stacks of notes for the night. 

“Oh,” Sirius said when he saw the book they were using as a reference. “Mates, you don’t have to keep doing this, I’ll be fine—”

“If I want to spend my evenings researching obscure forms of diabolical magic, Black, I don’t need your blessings to do it, thank you very much.” James retorted with an air of imagined indignation, flourishing a bit of parchment as he did so.

Sirius seemed like he wanted to argue, to be irritated that they were focusing so much energy on him and the things he could do nothing about, but instead he sighed and plopped himself resignedly into an empty seat besides Peter. “Go on, then.”

“As I was saying,” James began, pompously as Sirius chucked a wadded up piece of parchment at him, “We just need to cross-reference the foundational frameworks of these styles of binding spell building, and work our ways backward from there.”

Remus, scanning a page in _ Binder’s Bidding _, was too distracted to pay much attention to James’s dramatic recounts. The illustration of what binding spells did to one’s body and magic was absolutely terrifying. It wove its way into the very fibre of one’s being and anchored itself in the fluctuating concept of truth. The magic was sentient, evolving, and could sense the interplay between the caster’s intent of the binding and the recipient’s understanding of the truth. There were even illustrations of poorly cast unbreakable vows, where one’s understanding of objective and subjective truth caused adverse reactions and complications of the spell. Bodies contorted in pain, writhing on the ground and covered in welts. 

This magic was old and deep and complicated and Remus couldn’t understand who would do this to anyone, let alone a _ child _. He was pulled from his spiralling thoughts by James and Sirius, bounding suddenly away from the table, trying to quietly wrestle their way up the stairs, Sirius bracing himself on the doorway and James trying to lift him over his shoulder. He looked over at Peter with a raised eyebrow, who said simply with a shrug, “they’re getting the cloak.”

Remus nodded and sighed deeply, finally closing the dark leather tome and its worrying contents. He stood and stretched and mentally prepared himself for an evening of getting up to no good. 

_____________

_ June 20, 1974 _

As the weeks wore on, barrelling quickly towards the end of their third year at Hogwarts, Sirius, in his charismatic and distracting ways, had convinced them to put a hold on researching ways to break his unbreakable vow, and rather focus their clever skills and keen minds to something that seemed much less depressing and much more rewarding in the ways of mischief-making and nonsense. 

The four of them had begun to compile a rough index for all of the hidden tunnels and secret recesses of the castle that they had discovered over their three years of getting up to no good, after nearly getting caught out after dark again and stumbling into a new corridor on the third floor. They were heckled by a portrait of three fair maidens, tending to a large cauldron over a fire, one of them threatening to call for Filch, brandishing her wooden spoon, and another telling them which rooms in the passage were unlocked with a wink and a smile.

“Just imagine how many secret places this place has,” James had whispered excitedly, climbing back up to the dorm at near 3am, “we need to figure out as many as we can before we leave.”

They all stayed up that night until the sun rose, all huddled onto Sirius’s bed, writing lists and drawing diagrams, consumed with the idea of uncovering the castle’s secrets. They only stopped when they heard the sounds of students heading towards breakfast, and blearily they dressed and raced out the door, eager to fuel up on strong tea and crispy bacon to get them through the day.

And, over the weeks the wall of their dorm room had become more and more occluded with spelled bits of parchment, poorly drawn diagrams of tunnels and niches in walls, brass thumb tacks holding strings between odd names for entrances they had found, and portraits with information. 

James had managed to get a 400-year-old copy of what one might consider schematics for the castle, though it seemed more a subjective interpretation rather than an actual layout. Not to mention things seemed to move to a different place every time they tried to reference it.

Remus was dashing up the steps to the dorm room, side stepping the hopeful call of Marlene who beckoned him to join her for a final game of exploding snap before the end of term, leaving Lily glowering after him with a disapproving glare when he shouted, “sorry, Marlene, catch you later!” 

He opened the door just enough to slip inside, making sure no one was about in the hall and turned to see Peter balancing precariously on a stool as he tried to scribble a final dictation on an errant note beside a drawing of a statue of a one-eyed witch. 

Sirius was on the other end of their sprawling mess of parchment, trying to charm a poor depiction of the whomping willow to dance about. 

James looked up excitedly from his bed where he was carefully drawing all the rooms of the first floor, “Did you get it?” 

“Yeah,” Remus smiled, as he extricated a small, old, rather tatty fabric-bound book from under his robes. “I nicked it from behind Madam Pince’s desk after setting off a dung bomb in the dark creatures section. It accidentally rolled under Davey’s desk.”

He tossed _ Magical Map Making and Divinatory Delineation by Oswald Schoomer _to James who caught it gleefully. “Excellent!”

“Don’t make me regret stealing that,” Remus warned, feeling a slight twist of unease about taking a school book without permission. 

“Oh, stop worrying so much, she’ll never know it was gone.” Sirius chastised as he sat hunched over his drawing of the whomping willow, the branches beginning to sway. 

“How on Earth are we going to take this down for the summer without messing the whole thing up?” Peter asked, climbing down from his stool and surveying the wall with mounting concern, hands on his hips and face sweaty. 

“Well since we can’t use magic over the summer, we’ll have to pay attention to the coding system. Each bit of parchment has a number, and this,” he produced a smaller drawing of the wall of notes with an accompanying ledger, “will tell us where each piece goes.”

“So, you’re taking it home first, right James?” Remus clarified. 

“Yes! And every week, we’ll pass it along to the next person in line, and we’ll all add to it over the summer, so we’re ready to make it into a proper map by the start of next term.” 

“As I said before, you might have to skip me,” Sirius said, not looking at any of them as he continued to diligently charm images on the parchment. “I don’t know if I’ll have the time.” 

“Okay then, we’ll save you for last and you can write to me to let me know. Peter, you’re next— don’t lose anything. Then Remus, then Sirius. We all know our duties?”

They spent several hours dividing duties related to their monstrous map project before they left together for the leaving feast where the Great Hall was decorated in the colours of Ravenclaw. Sirius seemed to have single-handedly lost Gryffindor enough points to put them in 3rd place, despite the victory of their second quidditch cup in two years. 

It was good fun, either way, until halfway through dinner when Marlene was asking everyone their plans for the summer holiday, casually bumping her leg against Remus’s, making him blush and knock several things over. 

Sirius sank into a quiet glower when asked about his summer. “The usual, I suppose,” he muttered frostily, eyes trained on his rare filet and roast potatoes, not touching any of it. His mood continued to fester as dinner wore on, and Remus watched him carefully, as did James. Peter was too busy trying to engage Marlene in a discussion about trolls to notice. 

When the feast ended, and the tables dispersed, Sirius seemed to melt into the crowd and wasn’t found in the common room or dorm when they returned to finish packing. 

With mild consternation the three of them carefully took the map off the wall and stacked the pieces with the ledger, placing it in a charmed envelope. James tucked it into his trunk with care before the three of them decided they should get to bed. 

Just as Remus was slipping into a comfortable sleep, he heard the latch and creak of the door, and Sirius’s soft steps on the stone floor, followed quickly by a flourish of bedding. James quietly marched over to Sirius’s four-poster, and Remus could hear them climbing in under the covers and closing the hangings. 

Before one of them thought to put up a silencing charm, he could hear James whispering, “You don’t have to go back, Sirius, I told you. Come home with me. I wrote to mom and dad and they say you’re welcome all summer. You don’t have to go back there.”

“I can’t leave Regulus there alone. I can’t leave him, James.” He sounded hollow and defeated and James took a deep breath before casting a silencing charm, and quiet fell in the room except for the sounds of Peter’s snores.


	19. Elhaz

The end of exams always brought a heaving sense of relief, accompanied by sun-filled slow summer days and the grounds bursting with fresh grass and the rustling of westerly winds through the trees. The four of them couldn’t help but find their way down to the banks of the lake, the heat of the afternoon beckoning the giant squid to just below the surface, shimmering gently like a teeming school of fish, whole and at home. 

“Of course she asked for a cat.” Sirius grumbled, one arm flung across his eyes as he lay back, sleeves and pant legs rolled up, his outer robes cast off. Transfiguration had just finished, and Minerva McGonagall had not held back. 

“At least yours managed not to attack you.” Peter was still nursing a deep scratch on one arm. “The tabbies always come out so mean. I should’ve tried for a calico.” Sirius absent mindedly flicked his yew wand and sent a healing spell Peter’s way, eyes still covered. 

Remus laughed softly. “I’m sure you did fine, Pete.” He sat perched on a protruding rock, hugging knees against his chest. 

“Easy for you to say, mate. I saw your cat. Absolute legend. It was purring and winding its way around McG’s ankles when I walked in. Hissed something awful at the Siamese I transfigured.” James balled up his and Sirius’s robes together and put them behind his head. 

It was quiet and peaceful in the sun by the lake, griping about exams. They spent a round hour whinging about Slughorn’s asking them to brew both a confusion concoction and a fresh vat of doxycide. Sirius and James had always found potions to be relatively straightforward, but Peter’s doxycide had curdled and Remus had added far too much lacewing to the confusion concoction, turning it deep blue in place pale yellow. 

“Nothing to be done about it now.” Remus shrugged, shredding bits of grass between his fingers. The four of them lapsed into a steady, enjoyable silence, only broken when James sat up to watch Lily, Dorcas and Mary MacDonald wander down the sloping lawns to sit just a little ways away in the shade of a large Beech tree. 

It was just after watching them that James stood, hands on his hips, and Sirius groaned deeply. “Here we go, gents,” Sirius sniggered, “we’re about to get the ‘next year when I’m quidditch captain’ speech. Just watch.” 

James looked offended for a brief second, before a characteristic sternness that accompanied many a pre-match speech returned. “Now, Sirius, I wasn’t going to say anything but since you’ve brought it up, I do think it’s about time we got serious about the game.” 

Sirius openly laughed into the crook of his arm. “Go on then, James.” 

“I’m serious. We won the cup only by the skin of our teeth this year. We could be better. We could be great. The final against Slytherin was too close. We chasers really had to carry the team.” James was pacing back and forth now, voice round and projecting a bit more than was really necessary. 

“Gideon would have words for you, Potter.” Sirius said, still smiling, entirely enjoying the scene. The way James seemed to think quidditch and the reputation he gained from being a chaser on a winning team could carry him into just about anyone’s good graces. 

“When I’m captain, I’ll organise practice every day, on and off the pitch. We need hand skills, Black. We need communication. We need team building! I’ll have us in top shape mentally, physically, we’ll be unstoppable.” 

Sirius groaned loudly, and with vigour. Peter was nodding along and Remus had stopped shredding his blades of grass, small huffing laughs seeming to punctuate James’s proclamations. 

“And she still won’t go out with you, mate.” Sirius leaned up on his elbows, nodding in the direction of Lily’s red hair in the shade of the Beech. 

“It has nothing to do with her.” James positively hissed, throwing the ball of robes at Sirius, who batted them away with ease. 

“We ought to get packing.” Remus broke the tension, getting up from his rock and leaning down to offer Peter a hand, pulling him to his feet. “Train leaves tomorrow.” 

“Such a buzzkill, Lupin.” Sirius stood and stretched, yawning loudly, trying hard to hide the discomfort he felt with the impending summer. With the hours ticking by, marking time, keeping fastidious note of how long he had. How much freedom remained. 

Not enough, of course. 

______________

They wound their way back down toward the entrance hall, running late because James was convinced he had forgotten an important part of their map, disarticulated in pieces as it was, behind the dresser where he’d hidden it days prior. As they all ran back towards the entrance hall, one after another they each jumped the false step in the stairs, but before they could reach the landing, the whole staircase lurched under them. They moaned their grievances as it swung around to deposit them in the west wing of the second floor, near the charms corridor. 

“Why does it always move when we have somewhere to be?” Peter griped, as they began to march down the corridor towards the secret stone steps they knew, at least, wouldn’t move on them. 

James stuck his arm out to halt Peter’s litany of curses about being made to walk further than he needed to, and furrowed his brow. “Do you hear that?” he asked, and the rest of them stopped to listen. Sure enough, the faintest of crying could be heard echoing down the hall from the west corridor, the one that often smelled of mould and had paintings that seemed universally quiet and grim. 

“What is that?” Remus asked, sounding concerned, his stance stiffening. 

“Come on,” James urged, turning sharply towards the sound. Sirius and Peter, quick to follow, led Remus, who trailed slowly behind, whinging about the time and the train and the likelihood that this, of all things, would certainly make them late. 

As they moved further down the corridor, it became more and more clear that these distressing sounds seemed to seep from behind an old ebony door, one with tarnished gold finishings, set into a stone archway. The stone was old and smoothed with the passage of time, but carved serpents hidden amongst climbing vines and flowering foliage could still be seen, winding their way around leaves and branches. 

Immediately, James put his hand to the dark wood to open the door, ignoring Remus’s muttered reproach of, “it’s the girls bathroom, James, we shouldn’t be here.” 

But, as usual, no one heeded the warning of their most cautious friend, and the three of them were already pushing their way inside and beneath the stone archway, Sirius calling a soft, “hello? Anyone in here?” And James following with a gentle “we heard crying— are you okay?” Instead of a response, Sirius could just make out Remus sighing heavily, slipping in behind Peter before the heavy door could swing shut behind them. 

The large room was decorated with more stone archways and carved walls, the floor and ceiling were covered in scenes of forest boughs and gnarled branches radiating from old light fixtures, none of which seemed to be working. It felt old and stoic, cosseted, like so many of the deepest, oldest parts of the forest, untouched and untroubled by the forward march of time. 

Sirius, with James close behind, his hand on his shoulder, crept toward the stall on the end, where the loud and angry sobs seemed to be emanating. 

James uttered another cautious, “Hello? Who’s there?” But it seemed to disappear in the renewed echoing of an episode of hair-raising wailing. 

Sirius, hand splayed on the ornate wood of the last stall door, pushed gently, swinging it inward. He and James stepped quickly aside in one fluid motion, leaving Peter, who had been just behind them, standing directly in view of the stall occupant, who screamed in inconsolable rage and rushed forward, her incandescent grey form diving straight through him, ricocheting off the far wall and bursting several taps at once, water spraying in a relentless fountain across the room. 

Remus, who had hung back while the other three advanced towards the bank of stalls, instantly ducked behind a large tiled pillar, the form of a majestic oak, at the far end of the room, while Sirius and James clutched at each other and Peter fell backwards, landing in a sodden and blubbering heap just below the line of gushing sinks, his face an ashen white, hands trembling.

“HOW DARE YOU INTERRUPT MY MORNING CRY.” The spectral figure shrieked, having returned to hover in the midst of the room, her voice high pitched and grating, nasal and piercing all at once. 

“We didn’t mean to,” James countered, “we just wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

“OKAY?” She screamed, incredulous and positively unhinged by the audacity of such a suggestion. 

“IM DEAD.” The revenant catapulted the words from the wispy memories of a throat and lungs, pickled in all the bitterness a departed soul might muster. 

The proclamation hung in the air for a moment, echoing oddly around arched recesses and the hard stone surfaces of the room. Peter sniffled hard beneath the cascading water that ran headlong over rims of porcelain basins. James swallowed several times, loudly and uncharacteristically. In the aftermath of this, the truest and most harrowing of statements, the duppy seemed to huff, perhaps in the great cruelty that one must be aware of one’s own mortality, then dove headfirst into an adjacent stall’s toilet, soaking James and Sirius both from head to toe in water she’d splashed from the bowl. 

Sirius and James looked at each other, drenched in what couldn’t be the most benign of things, thoroughly rebuked and properly lashed. Peter was cowering under a sink in the corner, tap flowing and spilling out around him to soak the rest of his robes, also sobbing. 

“We’re sorry to have interrupted.” Sirius called to the recently occupied toilet. 

The spectre re-emerged, suddenly, causing Peter to flinch and Remus to duck back behind the pillar to float in front of Sirius and James. She was a young girl, perhaps only just older than they were, with large glasses and a round face, scarred with acne and framed in stringy hair. She was a ghost, just one they’d never seen before. 

“This is a girl’s toilet.” She sniffled, looking them over. “You’re not allowed.” 

“My many apologies. Seems we got ourselves a bit lost, is all.” Sirius said smoothly, trying to put on his best accommodating aire. James nodded along beside him. Peter was still snuffling under the sink, but the water was stemmed to just an errant drip, though the floor of the stalls were now covered in several inches of standing water. 

Sirius cleared his throat. “Excuse me, where are my manners? My name is Sirius Black, and this is James Potter, and the one crouched under the sink there is our mate, Peter Pettigrew.” He looked around and spotted Remus peeking out from behind the pillar, his eyebrow raised and face looking like they ought to be making a quick exit, not more introductions, “Ah, yes, and that one back there keeping dry and out of the commotion is Remus Lupin.” Sirius looked around at them all encouragingly, “Well, say hello gents, don’t leave the lady waiting.” They all nodded and waved stiffly, except Peter, who was still hyperventilating a bit. 

The ghost giggled, which was a decidedly uncomfortable and awkward sound, and it almost seemed as though she was blushing, tears entirely forgotten. 

James took the time to give Peter a hand and drag him up from under the sinks, which really hadn't stopped overflowing, and even Remus was standing in an inch or so of water by now, still relatively safe behind his pillar. 

“There, there, Pete” James said, a hand on his very wet shoulder. 

“Hullo then.” The ghost said, hovering above the toilet. “I’m Myrtle.” Her voice strained at her name, and she scrunched up her opaque eyes again, tears threatening. The four of them shrank backward instinctively. “Miserable Myrtle.” She continued, sobs starting anew. “Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle.” 

She began crying again at this point, still making a rather impressive effort to speak in between the sobs, and her voice growing louder on each word. “That’s what they used to call me. Right here in this miserable school. In these horrible halls. And then I would come here and cry and cry and cry all the afternoons before Madam Pomfrey would come fetch me for a calming draught.” 

She started really wailing, now. “AND THAT MISERABLE OLIVE HORNBY NEVER GAVE ME A MOMENT’S PEACE AND HERE YOU ARE PRETENDING TO BE NICE TO ME SO YOU CAN TELL CRUEL JOKES AND LAUGH BEHIND MY BACK LATER.” 

She swooped down and through Peter, again, who blanched and choked unpleasantly, falling back into the still accumulating standing water, splashing his heavy robes about in a panic while James attempted to grab him to help him back up to his feet. 

Sirius, who was also prudently stepping back, caught Remus’s eye. Remus was making specific and purposeful movements toward the ebony door, which swung open at that very moment, sending a renewed wave of water back rippling against the wall. 

Myrtle was screaming incoherently about being teased by someone named Olive and how she’d never leave any Hogwarts student any moment of peace ever again, creating gigantic splashes of water from toilets and sinks and even managing to shatter a mirror in all the hubbub. 

In the doorway, above the din, they heard a familiar sharp Scottish accent “What in the name of Godrick - Myrtle for heaven’s sake.” Remus dived toward the open door, slipping out into the hall, Sirius and James, dragging a sobbing Peter right behind him, right under the outstretched arm of an irate Professor McGonagall. 

Incoherent yelling between Minerva and Myrtle followed them as the door swung shut, and the four of them pelted back down the hall and toward the hidden passage behind the four armoured knights that led into a cloakroom off the front entrance. 

They paused to catch their breath in the hidden stairwell, Sirius and James using their wands to blow jets of hot air in attempts to dry off, their robes still dripping and creating slick pools of toilet water about their sodden feet.

“What a great addition to the castle.” Sirius said, trying to hold back laughter. “Really charming.”

“Seems like you really thought you were going to win her over there, Black.” James said, also chuckling. “Seems like we finally met someone resistant to your charms.” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Black countered, grinning. “I’m never one to turn back from a challenge.” 

Remus snorted, using his own wand now to dry his socks and shoes. “Who the blazes is Olive Hornby?” 

“Who would let a ghost like that come back to the castle?” Peter stammered, James now using his wand to blow dry his hair, which was standing on end and fully floofed out in the hot air. 

“Does anyone actually get to decide where a ghost goes or what they do?” Remus asked, straightening up. 

“I thought they generally haunted where they died. That’s what my dad said, anyway.” James said, finally leaving Peter in peace. 

“Who is such an unfortunate, cursed soul they die in a toilet? And then has to stay there? For eternity?” Asked Sirius, throwing his cloak back over his shoulder and using his wand to light the way, continuing on down the dark and spiralling set of stairs. 

They were silent for a while, contemplating the newest of Hogwarts ghosts, or maybe a bit on the concept of eternity, and before long they found themselves piled behind Sirius, peeking out from the cloakroom in the great hall, ensuring the coast was clear. 

The coast was beyond clear, really. The great hall was empty, with no piles of trunks or students or teachers, not even Filch or that wretched cat of his anywhere in sight. 

The four of them spilled out into the hall, looking around. “Oh no.” Groaned Remus, jogging toward the heavy doors that marked the main entrance to the castle. “What time does the train leave again?” He pulled them open, just catching the smallest sight of the last carriage disappearing beneath the trees that surrounded the long drive down the castle grounds towards Hogsmeade and the train station. 

“Better hurry, mates.” Sirius added, laughing as he broke into a run, booted feet hitting hard on the rocky gravel that wound down along the steep hillside. James pulled ahead of him eventually, even looking back to stick out his tongue, laughing. Remus loped along awkwardly, obviously not wanting to miss the train, but long and gangly and unaccustomed to a run, let alone a sprint. Peter kept up quite well with Remus this time, face growing redder and redder by the minute. 

By the time they found themselves skidding to a halt on the platform alongside the Hogwarts express, the train was steaming and whistling, slowly rumbling forward and inching along, eager to depart the station. The four of them hurled themselves through a still open carriage, landing in a heap, with James just managing to slam the sliding door shut as the train began to pick up speed, rumbling steadily forward. 

They lay, panting and wheezing and clutching various parts of themselves for a few long minutes, none of them speaking. Sirius spread out with his back on the cold floor that vibrated steadily with the churning motion of the train on the tracks, Remus on his left, face down and groaning intermittently. James was on his right, breathing hard but smiling. Peter was by his feet, eyes closed, looking as though he never planned to move again. 

He took a few moments apart from the victory of making their train. Of succeeding. Of winning the race against time. To mourn the possibility of having missed the train entirely, a future where he stayed the whole of summer at Hogwarts, exploring dark passages and musty corridors and uncovering ghosts and secrets and so many hidden things. A summer where he didn’t have to watch his father and his mother and so many others dance in pretty circles around each other, singing odes to cruelty. A summer where he didn’t imagine the ways they steeped the world in suffering, in misery, and the ways they watched and reveled in it. Made gold with it. Bought and paid for it. 

A summer where he didn’t watch his father swallow down bitters and wine and throatfulls of stiff drink and look blank and bored, awaiting his yearly opportunity for vice and malice and brutality. 

He thought about the ways his father had let those parts of himself spill over in the years before, when he was young and wistful and tried so hard to please him. The way he’d beaten Sirius, hurt him, given the lack of easier, better sedated prey. He thought about the way he let his mother hate him, the way he let her hiss such vicious things in his ear. The way they let him believe he was a poison. A hateful, imperfect thing, foul and wretched and human. Too human. Too flawed and real and ugly to be pure like them. 

The way they let him hang on small words, small moments of praise, when he performed. When he was cruel and foul and hateful in the ways they wanted him to be. The way their love for him was so bound in conditions, in caveats, in bigotry and dogma that it couldn’t really be love, could it. 

Love was impartial. Love was forgiving and gracious and irreparably full of humanness. Of humanity. Love was the way he felt about Remus and James and Peter and Regulus. Regulus. Soft and kind and tottering along, a boy who used to ask Sirius to tie his shoelaces for him and who’d swap his carrots for Sirius’s broccoli and who’d pick Queen Anne’s Lace and Marigolds for Kreacher in the garden in June and Gardenias in July. 

Regulus, who’d be the kind of easy prey Sirius had always been if he did leave. If he did not return home and did not serve as an outlet for their cruelest needs. Regulus, who was small and slight. Regulus, who hadn’t yet learned the charms he’d need to heal his own wounds. To hide bruises. Regulus, who’s magic had first appeared as levitation charms and little acts of transfiguration. Regulus, who couldn’t yet cast a _protego_ charm because he’d never had to. 

Sirius sat up, thoughts too full and too heavy. “Come along, gents,” he said, clearing his throat and getting to his feet, pulling off his outer robes to reveal James’s favorite sleep shirt underneath. It was a baggy, pale yellow thing with a horridly cartoonish line of trees below faded black lettering, something about the little alchemists summer camp, 1968. It suited Sirius and his new love for muggle comfort-wear terribly. “Let’s find a compartment.” 

The train ride back was uneventful. They played exploding snap and ate chocolate frogs, chatting amicably about the summer ahead. James ruminated on Quidditch for a whole hour before Remus pulled out that morning’s Daily Prophet and the four of them sat with their heads together to read an article on the disappearance of Sohail Shafiq. 

It was at that point that Sirius got restless and both hot and cold and decided it was time for a walk up and down the long corridor of the train that ran between compartments. He’d spotted Regulus sitting with Barty Crouch, Noah Shafiq and Evan Rosier near the front, the four of them laughing and practicing wingardium leviosa on about a thousand different feathers scattered about the compartment. It looked as though they’d ripped apart a featherdown pillow, or perhaps a whole duvet. 

He tapped at the door and waved through the glass, and Regulus had broken concentration to wave back, about half of the floating feathers falling back toward the floor, Barty looking stone faced back at him and Noah rolling his eyes, clearly demanding Regulus pay attention. 

He saw Lily, Marlene, Dorcas, Mary and Alice all together with two Hufflepuffs from their year, Xavier Smith and Dirk Cresswell. Xavier was clearly in the midst of some self-aggrandising and likely heavily embellished storytelling, and the Gryffindor girls all had bored, blank expressions. Dorcas seemed to have fallen asleep against Mary’s shoulder, and Lily’s arms were folded tight across her chest. Sirius had a half a moment to consider rescuing them, but he thought better of it. Lily was well and capable of rescuing herself. 

Eventually, he found his way back to their own compartment and James, in a moment of pure brilliance and incredible planning and foresight, produced four butterbeers from deep in his trunk, which they happily drank together, James and Sirius occasionally raising the glass bottles to cheers to some of their greatest moments of the year. 

They cheersed to spelling Severus’s nose green and the week they made a real effort to count the number of horrible accidents and odd incidents that seemed to plague poor Davey Gudgeon. Remus nearly wet himself laughing at that particular recollection, since that week was also the same one that the castle decided to smooth every single staircase Davey tried to climb when he was one or two steps from the top, creating a great and terrible slide he’d unceremoniously be flung right back down. By the end of the week, no one would walk with him anywhere, and it was all a great relief that the Hufflepuff common room wasn’t up in a tower. 

“To Osler’s Fire.” Said Remus wistfully, raising his own bottle. “And may we return again, someday.” 

“Cheers.” They all said in unison. 

“What do you think that thing guarding the fire was?” Said Sirius, his butterbeer bottle still resting against his lip, lost in thought. 

“A water demon.” Peter shuddered hard, slopping some of his drink across his hand, which he then quickly slurped up. 

“Do vampires shriek like that?” James pondered, his feet up on the bench across from him, between Remus and Peter. “It would explain why it smelled like blood.” 

“Oh, stop. Please.” Peter whined. “I’d forgotten about that.”

Late in the afternoon, the train pulled unceremoniously into platform nine and three quarters and the four friends went their separate ways for the third summer in a row. Hasty goodbyes and reassurances that both the map and their friendship was safe. 

But then the platform had emptied, and Sirius sat, Regulus at his side, slowly buttoning his robes to his throat. Waiting. Listening to the youngest of his name, full to the very brim with excitement, recount the wonders of magic and the fast friends he’d made in his first year in the house of snakes. 

______________

One week had passed before Sirius found himself treading, light footed, up the wide wooden stairs, his shaking hand resting gently against Regulus’s door, slowly easing it open. It creaked, as all things within Grimmauld Place had a great tendency to do, but the hinges swung quickly, Sirius stepping into the relative quiet, dark and calm. Piano music drifted from a wireless in the corner and Regulus was perched precariously atop his dresser, balancing with his hands outstretched, pinning up a green Slytherin house banner, his magic not yet refined enough to tack it up by anything but hand. 

“Regulus. Brother. Come on down from there. We’ve got to go.” Sirius rushed forward and reached up to help lift him down, beckoning with fingers outstretched and voice quieter than a whisper. “Pack your things. Where’s your trunk?” 

“What are you talking about Sirius?” Regulus asked, pressing the pin holding the banner to the wall deeper into the forest wallpaper, not bothering to whisper himself. “What do you mean we need to go?”

“Regulus,” Sirius huffed impatiently, giving up trying to help him down to look for the trunk himself, picking up odds and ends, magical books and robes scattered about. “We can’t stay here. Our family- they’re involved- things are-” He paused between thoughts, discarding a Slytherin tie on principle and reaching for The Standard Book of Spells instead. 

Regulus was pouting evenly, still standing atop his dresser and looking at Sirius, waiting. Expecting an explanation. 

Sirius dumped the pile of things on his little brother’s green bedspread, the four posters of the frame carved with snakes and Black family insignia. He raised one hand to his forehead, rubbing the space between his eyes, which was sore and distracting. 

“There’s evil things brewing, Regulus. There’s evil people out there and they’re taking hold of things. Our family is getting drawn in, and people are planning very evil deeds, murder even.” Sirius didn’t know how to explain, not with his hands growing hot and nausea pooling in his gut. All he knew is it was time. He had to leave. It wasn’t safe. Not for him, not for Regulus. 

“You mean the dark lord?” Regulus said matter-of-factly, dropping down to sit on top of his dresser, his feet in little patent leather loafers now dangling down by the third drawer. 

“Yes.” Sirius said, staring at him, arrested by the use of this moniker. This name. “How do you know about Voldemort?” 

“Everyone in Slytherin knows, Sirius.” Regulus said, rolling his eyes and kicking his feet a bit so that his heels bounced off the polished wood of the dresser. “My friend Evan, Evan Rosier, his dad sent him a letter a few weeks ago telling him all about the new order that’s coming. How wizards are going to be safe once more, kept secret from muggles.” 

Sirius stared at Regulus, open mouthed. “Regulus it’s not about keeping wizards safe. Voldemort murders people. He’s evil. He’s planning unspeakable things.” He wasn’t whispering anymore but somehow this new turn of the conversation felt so much more dangerous. So much more sinister than what he had come running from in the parlour room downstairs. 

“But it’s in the name of the greater good, Sirius. The wizarding world needs protecting from muggles. Wizarding culture, our customs, our schools and traditions, all of them need protecting and preserving.” Regulus spoke with the tone and expression of someone explaining very simple concepts to a very small child, and Sirius felt the earth shifting irreparably beneath his feet. 

“Regulus, he’s killing people. Innocent people. How can you even- why would you think it’s wizards who need protection from muggles?” 

Regulus hopped down from his dresser and moved back to the pile of things Sirius had deposited across his green bedspread, gathering his books to replace them on his shelf. “Of course we do. Muggles are a threat to our whole way of life. Look how they burned those they thought were witches. They hate us, Sirius. Everyone knows this. Don’t be daft.” 

“You’re wrong, Regulus.” Sirius felt like crying. His eyes burned and his throat hurt and he couldn’t quite articulate why, or how, Regulus’s betrayal stung him so deeply and completely. “You’re wrong and I don’t know how to argue with you when you can’t see that death, that murder, is never permissible.” 

“Oh you wouldn’t kill someone who threatened your family? What if they were about to kill me or mother? You don’t have to act so pious, brother.” Regulus was smirking to himself now, re-folding his robes, packing them away. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Regulus.” Sirius bit out, anger now surging to the surface. What had happened to his kind, soft, loving brother who worried about the badgers who didn’t have dens to retreat to in the summer rains or winter snows. What had they done to him? How had he changed so much, so quickly, just behind Sirius’s turned back.

“What was it that you and father and uncles Rudolphus and Rabastan were discussing just now in the parlour, Sirius?” Regulus asked, obviously more intrigued by this than the looming threat of violence. “I cannot wait until next year. Father said once I’m a man I’ll be welcome to join for the after dinner drinks and I’ll be able to sit and hear what moves our family makes. I’ll be one of you.” His eyes were bright and crinkled up by smiling cheeks. It made Sirius feel sick. 

He thought of Rudolphus and the way he had killed Rhiannon. The way he’d split her flesh. Discarded her. The pleasure he seemed to take in it. The room seemed to spin and churn and the threat of his little brother being brought into this world, it brought ringing to his ears. 

The tide was too strong. The waters, too deep. Sirius was drowning in seas he could not name. Seas that swallowed men like him whole. Without remorse. 

He thought of the quiet stillness of Professor Shafiq. He thought of the way the light played on the bangles about his wrists and the embroidery that hemmed his sleeves. He thought of how much he’d loved Gloria Figg and the way he had moved heaven and earth for her, only for her to meet a bitter, cruel end in the basement of Crouch manor not two weeks ago, begging for her life, if Rabastan Lestrange was to be believed. To be laughed at over port and brandy and sherry by those who would capitalise on her death and the vulnerability borne from how much he had loved her and how magic had deserted her. 

It was untenable, now, because the tide was high and dangerous, and one could only tread water for so long, the shore distant, disappearing from sight. 

It was time. 

______________

The night air was warm and humid and smelled of all kinds of things, mostly related to cities and large numbers of people living together in close quarters. Sirius took deep, steadying breaths of it anyway, hurrying down the empty street, edged by dark and quiet brownstones, walkups and the late night quiet of shopfronts, closed for the evening. 

In the distance there were noises of cars and traffic and even laughter from within spaces he’d not ever been invited that seemed to pepper the dark. Rounding the corner, Sirius took a moment to step gingerly into a tiny alley, just shoved between a warmly decorated florist’s shop and what was likely a very nice, albeit rather snooty, cafe during the day. He stood there a moment, breathing the sweet and humid air, patting his trouser pocket where he’d stowed his shrunken trunk with all his worldly possessions, then making sure his wand was still securely hidden in plain sight, affixing the top knot of his dark hair. 

It had been an easy decision, once he’d made it. Easy, because as he’d fled from Regulus’s room and climbed the next flight of stairs, there wasn’t a single thing for which he could imagine staying. Druella and his mother could be heard cackling in one of the east sitting rooms, the green and silver one with that horrid tapestry of the whole family tree. Bellatrix and Narcissa would be there with them, undoubtedly learning and unfolding all of the generational knowledge that women passed between each other when they found themselves married off into the hands of appropriately bred men. 

Men, like the men of the parlour downstairs, the brothers Lestrange, Lucius, his father. Ugly, conniving, brutal men who showed their teeth when they smiled. Men responsible for things that piled up in the corners of the room, yet, who seemed perfectly at their ease to deny those things even existed at all. As if the lamplight were being slowly turned lower and lower. 

But, the truth was, Gloria Figg was dead. He knew it to be true because his father had called for Kreacher to send word to his solicitor. There was gold to be made and power at hand, and if his father knew one thing and one thing only it was how to capitalise on the death of an enemy, and he wouldn’t make such bold moves without certainty. 

Lucius said Shafiq would be next, blood traitor that he was, if only they could find him, and Sirius sent silent prayers to the old gods, covertly drawing runes against the skin of his palm, hands clasped together in his lap.

And then, without warning, his path became clear. It was no longer time to draw runes and pray. It was time to join Sohail Shafiq in the warm summer night, awake and free and unburdened by the weight of his convictions. To draw the runes deep into himself and the earth around him. To not be so feeble and fumbling and afraid in his allegiances.

Sirius, standing in the dark and rather putrid smelling alley, ran his fingers along the buttons of his silken robes, fitted tight and precise against his skin. He slipped a finger beside one, pulling it from its fabric clasp. Then another. And before long, he’d unfastened the whole, silken, beautifully made, thing. 

He let it fall from his shoulders, his Snowdonia t-shirt bright white beneath it, his trousers and dress shoes and fancy dress socks with lace on the folded over cuff now looking wholly ironic and unreasonable, which, for now, made them at least bearable. 

Picking up his outer robes from where they fell, Sirius felt his fingers wander into the sludge they’d fallen into, a strange and turbid mix of offal from the adjacent bin and years of settled grime that’d likely birthed and murdered generations of things in the swill between bricks that long ago might’ve been called red. 

It was putrid stuff, this muck. Rancid smelling. Too sweet for earth. And it was schmeared across quite a lot of the robe and all down Sirius’s first two fingers. Somewhere in the distance, a woman laughed high and tight and a door slammed. Music played. Sirius stared down at the mess, something giddy and unreasonable growing within him. 

Without doing much thinking, he knelt down and dipped his fingers back into the primordial soup of the alley between the florist and the cafe. It was sandy and soft and wet, and something about it felt horribly disgusting in the most human and earthy of ways. He brought his hand back up and dragged his fingers along the side of the metal bin from which much of this silty slime had come, wiping them so that in their wake was left a long, dark line. He added two horns and spoke aloud.  
  
“ _ The Elk-sedge usually lives in the fen, _

_ growing in the water. It wounds severely, _

_ staining with blood any man _

_ who makes a grab at it _ .”  
  
  
He rose, wiping the rest of the muck on his light grey trousers. Elhaz was fitting. He hoped it’d carry him through the night, guide him, even. 

He lifted the lid of the bin, about to throw on top of a week’s worth of rubbish his decadent black evening robes. Ones his mother had picked out, and had kept him well behaved for so long. 

“What the hell is the matter with you?” The voice was loud and uncomfortably close and Sirius nearly slipped and fell into the puddle by the bin for how badly he jumped back. 

“You can’t be throwing away clothing that fine, you daft goat.” The speaker was a boy, Sirius’s age, he guessed, but mosey and freckled and thin as a rail. Undernourished in a scrappy and hangdog kind of way. He had rags wrapped around his hands and his shirt was mere tatters, with dark smudges of earth across one cheek and a rather pronounced notch taken out of one ear. 

“I’m sorry?” Sirius said rather blusteringly, completely wrong footed. 

“I thought you were looking for something to eat when you went to pick up that bin lid and I was going to let you be or even tell you that the best scraps are in the lane by the Indian place on the corner but there you are throwing clothing away like it’s your first night on the street.” 

“Well, it-” Sirius tried hard to get a word in, but the boy was busy inspecting the bundle of fabric in his hands. 

“Hand it over then if you don’t want it. What is this? Silk?” The boy had taken the robes from Sirius’s hands and thrown them about himself. He left the buttons hanging open in front and wore it a bit like a trenchcoat. It was lucky he was quite tall, and the black silk seemed to float just off the ground. “Not bad, kid. Not bad at all. Don’t mind if I do, yeah? I could be a lord in this bit.” 

“You could.” Agreed Sirius, now nodding along and giving in to a smile. “Very proper.” 

“I’m Jack,” The boy said, sticking a hand out toward Sirius rather forcefully. He whistled softly and a tiny tan ball of fluff came tumbling around the corner, running to join the greeting, panting heavily. “And this here is Cricket.” 

“Sirius.” Sirius responded, shaking his heavily wrapped hand, and now absolutely gleeful in his grinning, watching Cricket sniff his pant leg and wiggle incessantly between their feet.  
  
“What kind of a name is that? Serious? Like your parents never had a bit of joy in their lives, that is.” Jack was now looking him up and down and taking in his fitted grey trousers and what had once been shiny dress shoes beneath them, his brow very furrowed.  
  
“I’m named after a star.” Sirius said, shrugging. “Everyone in my family is.” He was distracted by Cricket’s obvious enjoyment at the butt scratches he was giving. Her fur was soft and curly and little memories of Leonie seemed to run through him in odd, painful ways that were remedied at once as Cricket moved to lick his hands, still wagging her whole back end enthusiastically. 

“Right,” Jack said, still obviously pondering over this odd new introduction, “well, enough of that. I’ve got to keep moving if I am going to get enough food together for the night for Cricket and me, are you coming with, then?” 

“Can I?” Sirius looked up, so wholly thankful that he’d somehow made a friend so quickly. Two, actually, since Cricket seemed also very fond of him.

“Do you have anywhere else to go?” Jack raised an eyebrow, 

“I do, I think.” He paused, wondering what to do. He’d thought about going to the Potters in Godrick’s Hollow. It would’ve required calling the knight bus, or flooing even, but all of that felt too close. Traceable. 

Doris MacMillan was head of the Department of Transportation’s floo office and her nephew, Porter, son of Greyson MacMillan, was head of the subcommittee in charge of magical buses and charters, which took daily records of the movements of magical peoples in order to best ‘clarify transportation needs’. The knight bus was closely watched and monitored by exactly the kind of people who would love to have Orion Black owe them a favour. 

In this same vein, Peter’s house was out, too. It was much too far, up in the northeast somewhere, and his mother and her newest beau, another journalist it sounded like, would love a bit of fresh gossip to spread about. Her crowd seemed all too ready to nourish themselves on a steady diet of this misfortune of others. 

It was odd now, how much safer and more secure the muggle world seemed. How quiet and unassuming and untraceable it felt. How untouched by the many reaches of the powerful, of the sacred twenty eight and their colonels and lieutenants. Muggle means of transport were largely ignored by wizarding folk, and there was only a single office in one of the lowest levels of the ministry, really a closet in a disused hallway, devoted to muggle relations. It had been one of those issues that Gloria Figg had found herself advocating for, at least another person or two in the muggle liaison office. A protection officer. Something. 

“Do you have any idea how one would get to Moreton-on-Marsh from here?” 

_____________

The seats were hard metal and it smelled vaguely of a urinal. It couldn't have been more of a contrast to the plush interior of the Hogwarts express, and yet, Sirius was enjoying it immensely, his legs stretched out across the bench, Cricket in his lap. Every time he stopped petting her, she’d shove her nose against his hand and work all the harder to show her belly. The rhythmic sound of the train was familiar and soothing, and he was hard pressed to find reasons to be ill at ease. 

Jack was in the middle of explaining something immensely complicated that Sirius did not understand in the slightest. He seemed to have taken it upon himself to give Sirius a thorough education on all things he fancied as important ever since they’d first walked down into the underground station and he’d taught him just how one must jump a turnstile. Fundamental knowledge, he’d called it. Basic education. 

The carriage swayed a bit as they crossed a bridge, the dark river winding below them, the sounds of the train echoing a bit louder in the little valley it formed. 

“In any case, the stuff they’ve been using to kill the rats around London is a hell of a blood thinner. Got an enemy you need gone? Feed him some of that they’ll be bleeding out their gums and eyes and nose hellishly. Will end up in hospital for weeks with that one. No one will fuck with you when they think you’re able to curse someone with that shit.” 

Sirius nodded solemnly. He did know of blood thinning curses. Bellatrix had gone through a whole phase where she’d been especially prone to telling him all about them. Narcissa had said it was plebeian magic. He hadn’t realised that muggles had access to the same.

They rolled into a station and the train stopped, even though there were no other people on the carriage and not a soul on the dark platform. A sound chimed and the doors pulled shut again. 

“Moreton-on-Marsh is next, mate.” Jack said, shovelling some linguini they’d found in a bin by the station into his mouth, slurping up a long noodle and spraying sauce over Sirius’s old robes. “You know how to find the place from there?” 

“He said it’s just on the road down from the station.” Shrugged Sirius, thankful for having listened to that one story Remus had told in the early days of their third year. The one about how he’d been chased by the neighbours mastiff every morning on his way to his summer job, an ice cream shoppe just next to the ticket station. 

“Said his place was on Verona drive, fifth house down a poplar-lined bit. Yellow paint.” He paused a moment, thinking. “Red mailbox.” 

Sirius laughed a bit to himself. “If it’s anything like him, it’ll be a bit run down, I bet. Need a new coat. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.” 

“I’m not one to judge.” Said Jack, clearly pleased with his own coat and adventure and the evening’s subsequent spoils. He’d told Sirius he came down to London every now and then to forage. Shore up supplies. Look for treasures. He’d said it was too dangerous for someone like him to stay in the city. Rough customers sleep there, he’d said. So he took the train back up to his hometown in the northwest where he kipped by a church that wasn’t so keen to cast him out. It was pure luck his stop was on the same line as Moreton-on-Marsh. 

The train slowed and Sirius reluctantly handed Cricket back over to Jack, who ruffled her ears affectionately. 

“Thanks for everything, mate.” He said, reaching out to shake Jack’s hand one last time. “I hope we cross paths again.”  
  
“Aye, it was a great blessing, Sirius.” His grin was fond and his cheeks high and hollow as ever. “May fortune favour you.” 

“And you.” He called over his shoulder, stepping out into the quiet village of Moreton-on-Marsh. The train doors closed at his back and it pulled away and out of the station. He heard Cricket’s loud bark, but then it had moved off and night fell back over the quiet country village. 

The fluorescent lights over the station platform hummed and buzzed in a way that could only be so accentuated by the quiet. Moths and other insects swarmed in the pool of light they provided, driving themselves ceaselessly into the plastic fixtures, desperate to burn themselves alive on the heat of the globe. 

Sirius stepped down from the platform and headed across the tiny car park, which was just as empty and forlorn as one might imagine. He patted his pocket again, feeling the reassuring outline of his shrunken trunk. It wasn’t scary, this. No, this night and all of it’s strange twists and turns felt oddly charming and benign and like nothing could be more frightening than the thought that he might’ve stayed. 

Verona was just as fair as Remus had described, a short and shady row of houses amongst poplars that ran straight and uncomplicated toward the station. Even in the dark, Sirius had no trouble picking out the red mailbox in the distant half-moon light, and he scuffed his shoes on the pavement as he wandered up the lane. 

A dog barked in what was probably meant to be a menacing way from the yard of a two story house with a low stone wall, but Sirius found it comforting to know that all around were homes with canine companions, and they probably were all just a bit high strung having found themselves neighbours with what turned out to be a werewolf, of all things. He greeted the great drooling thing and it sunk back onto his haunches, apparently well pleased and reassured that Sirius was far less dangerous than he seemed, out and about in the witching hour. 

At the red mailbox, which, as Sirius had anticipated, was just a little bit skew and starting to rust around the hinges, Sirius found the yellow house with peeling paint and the white front porch with a swing that clearly hadn’t been used in ages. The lawn was overgrown and overrun with daisies and long, stringy grasses, and Sirius swung open an old wooden gate with a broken hinge, picked his way toward the stoop that led to a small porch and a recessed white door, plain save for a brassy covered slit about waist height. There were no lights on inside. 

There were not many moments in Sirius’s young life that he had wished he’d enrolled in muggle studies. However, the few that had occurred so far had left him with a long and lingering sense of unease with how little he seemed to know about muggle life and their day to day operations. This was one of those moments. 

How did one announce themselves at the home of a muggle? In wizarding tradition, you simply stepped up to the front door, declared your name, whether or not you had an appointment and the reason for your visit, and then the house or, rather, the house elf, brought this news to the master of the wizarding dwelling, who then made a decision about whether or not they’d like to open the door or refuse entry. 

It was a bit of an involved tradition, with many variations and some interesting unique traditions in various locales that sometimes accounted for quite a devastating faux pas (lest no one forget the great pineapple door knocker fiasco of 1712). 

Sirius cleared his throat, standing tall with his hands clasped behind his back, saying in a soft voice, cognisant of the early hour of the morning. “Announcing Sirius Orion Black, here to see Remus John Lupin without an appointment and on urgent business relating to a recent change of address.” 

A relative silence followed, during which the crickets seemed to get a bit louder and Sirius became more aware of another dog barking a few lanes over. He cleared his throat again and said, just a hair louder. 

“Announcing Sirius Orion Black, here to see Remus John Lupin without prior arrangement on an emergency basis and with great apology for the intrusion onto his home.” 

The house remained irresolute and seemingly disinterested. 

“Announcing Sirius Orion Black to see Remus John Lupin urgently on matters of housing and safety, with apologies for the lateness of the hour and the lack of appointment.” 

By this time, the crickets felt a bit mocking.

“Announcing a longtime friend of Remus John Lupin, Sirius Orion Black, who has traveled long and arduously deep into the night to discuss urgent business related to recent family events.” 

Sirius surveyed the door, eyes narrowed, before stepping up and raising the tarnished brassy lip that served as a covering to a horizontal portal through the wood. Leaning down, he spoke into the gap. 

“Announcing Sirius Orion Black, son of Orion Arcturus Black, here to see Remus John Lupin, son of…” Sirius paused, trying his utmost to remember Remus’s father’s name, and coming up blank. “Son of Hope Lupin, may she rest, here on urgent matters of recent family developments and regrettably, without appointment.” 

After waiting a moment, peering narrow eyed into the dark foyer of the house, Sirius cursed and stood, stamping one of his now scuffed and very dirty dress shoes. 

Well, there was nothing else for it. Perhaps the house was stubborn for all it’s shabbiness and required the kind of grand introduction that somewhere like a manor about a moor would demand. Sirius stepped back down off the porch and into the long grass of the overgrown yard, clearing his throat and bowing deeply. 

“Announcing,” He started in a clear and ringing voice that had a bit of a posh overtone one would associate with a carriage footman very invested in his work and that carried clear and heavy and absolutely unmissed throughout the dark and quiet of the tiny village street, “Sirius Orion Black-”

A light clicked on.


	20. The Summer of the Fae

Remus slowly became aware that he was awake as the faded edges of a tangled dream slipped from his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut and curled deeper into his Afghan, chasing the dream, wanting desperately to sink back into it. A dream of warm winds and wide fields, towering trees and the thrill of running with his pack through the darkness.

“ANNOUNCING—“ a voice yelled from somewhere outside, answered by several startled neighbourhood dogs and followed quickly by Remus flinging off his blanket and catapulting straight out of bed in shock. He banged into his bedside table as he stumbled on sleep-heavy legs towards the window in time to see the very confusing sight of one Sirius Orion Black, standing there in the dark yard, dress shoes gleaming, bellowing his own name. 

Flicking on the lamp with clumsy fingers, convinced he was hallucinating or still dreaming, or perhaps had slipped into an alternate universe, he peered out his window down to the front lawn with squinted eyes.

“HERE TO SEE REMUS JOHN LUPIN ON URGENT MATTERS CONCERNING—“

Remus wrenched the window open, deciding this mustn’t, in fact, be a hallucination, and whispered harshly, “Sirius! What in blithering hell are you doing?!”

“Remus! _ Finally _ !” Sirius yelled back, at far too loud a volume for the late hour. The chorus of neighbourhood dogs was swelling, drowning out the night song of frogs and crickets, and a few lights from dark houses were flicking on. “What’s wrong with your house? I’ve been down here trying to gain entry for an _ age _—”

“Sirius, _ shhhhhh _ ! I’ll be down just now, just stop yelling!” Remus demanded, hitting his head on the window as he pulled himself back into his room. “Merlin’s _ tits _,” he muttered as he rubbed the sore spot on his head and stumbled towards the hall. He banged his shoulder on the door frame on his way out and cursed under his breath.

Yanking the door open, Remus tried to make sense of Sirius’s holey, worn T-shirt and tailored dress pants, his scuffed and muddy dress shoes topped with the cuff of lacey white socks. 

“Sirius?” Remus asked, blearily reaching out and touching his face clumsily, still trying to decide if maybe he was dreaming. 

Sirius swatted him away, “is this how you greet people? Godric, Remus, how feral are you? Your house ignores guests and you come stumbling out in your knickers and try to cop a feel—“

Remus had given up trying to ascertain whether or not Sirius was real, because surely, no hallucination could be so convincingly obnoxious and disarming at near three in the morning, so instead he grabbed Sirius’s arm and dragged him inside, snapping the door shut behind them. 

“Well, I _ never _!” Sirius was squawking.

“Why didn’t you just _ knock _, you plonker?” Remus cut him off in exasperation.

“And affront your temperamental house further? I think not—“

“Sirius, oh my god,” Remus muttered to himself, running hand through his bed head, and turning towards the kitchen, “this isn’t a magical house, you _ know _ I was raised muggle.”

There was a protracted silence that followed Remus into the kitchen and he glanced over his shoulder to see Sirius surveying the sitting room, fists on his hips, with mounting scrutiny and confusion, looking as if he were trying to solve an immense arithmancy equation. 

“So the house is entirely inanimate?” He asked eventually, following Remus.

“Entirely.” 

“No house elves?”

Remus snorted, gesturing wildly around the little kitchen with dirty dishes in the sink, the corner overflowing with rubbish and a dustbin full of beer bottles that still needed to be taken out. The remnants of his dinner of gherkins and stale crackers were still on the little round table, “does it look like we have a house elf?”

But, alas, Sirius wasn’t listening. He had become entirely distracted by the pink enamel toaster that sat skew on the counter, charmingly peppered with several rusted dents, which were colluding to cause the once shiny paint to bubble and crack around the edges. He was peering at it with great intensity and prodded the lever with a curious, yet cautious, finger. 

Remus began the ritual of making tea, scavenging in the cupboards for some loose leaf that wasn’t too old and stale, as if this were a perfectly normal thing to do in the wee hours of the morning while one’s best mate inspected all of the knobs on all the kitchen appliances. Sirius made the job of lighting the stove a bit of a chore with his insistence that Remus show him how matches work and explain what a gas burner is and why muggles use it.

“You mean to tell me muggles use a pressurised tank of exploding gas to _ cook _with?” He demanded in horror. “What’s wrong with a wood stove?!” 

Finally setting down Sirius’s mug of tea, with one sugar and no milk, as there was none, and steering him to the table away from endlessly opening and closing the refrigerator door, Remus, avoiding the stove topic entirely, asked, “What happened? How did you get here?”

Sirius made a fuss of getting comfortable in the creaky wooden chair and pulled his cup of tea toward himself, wrapping his fingers around it. He seemed small in that moment, not brazen and confident as he had been announcing himself in the dead of night or trying to stick his finger into the gas burner, but unsure and vulnerable. 

“As I’m sure you’ve well sorted out by now, my parents are—“ he took a deep breath, “of specific allegiances.”

Remus nodded, taking a sip of his tea, letting the silence hang there. Letting Sirius decide what he wanted to share.

“I left.” He said with finality, looking up at Remus. “I should have left so much sooner, but I couldn’t— I thought I was protecting Regulus but I wasn’t and he—” Sirius stopped, looking down into his tea again. “He isn’t the innocent little brother I thought he was. He’s following in their footsteps. He doesn’t see what monsters they all are, that he’s in danger.”

“What kind of danger?” 

“There’s so much I can’t tell you— because of the—” he winced, placing his hand on his chest and Remus cut in.

“I know.”

“They killed Gloria Figg. And they’re after professor Shafiq. And others. They’re trying to make a world for wizards that doesn’t include anyone they deem unworthy.” He said, looking like he’d run out of breath. 

Remus was speechless. That was the most information he’d ever gotten out of Sirius about his parents and family, and it was quite a bit to take in. 

“And I just couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t sit there and drink brandy and laugh at their cruelty and pretend to be one of them. Because I’m not, Remus, I’m not one of them.” He declared, fiercely. “I’ll _ never _ be one of them.”

And still Remus couldn’t think of what to say, how to tell Sirius that he was so immensely proud and grateful and pleased and impressed that Sirius had braved the muggle world and turned his back on everything he was raised to believe. 

“So, I left. And I don’t want to be a burden, I just needed a place to kip for the night before I make a plan and I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can—“

“Don’t be stupid,” Remus cut in, “you can stay as long as you like, as long as you need. All summer, even.” The offer was easy to make. Simple. 

“Won’t your dad mind?” Sirius asked meekly, passing the steaming mug of tea between his palms. 

Remus huffed a sour laugh. “He hasn’t been home in three days, Sirius. I doubt he’d even notice.” 

“So, we’re on our own?” 

“We certainly are.” 

After finishing their tea and picking through a leftover casserole, they finally trudged up the stairs towards Remus’s room. He was instantly self conscious as they climbed the stairs and Sirius asked a slew of questions about the lack of an enlargement charm or the inability to manifest guest rooms at will inside of the very non-magical house. 

He silently cursed himself for not cleaning up once in the last week as they came through the doorway into his little room with the single bed and his overflowing bookcase, scattered dirty socks and parchment spilling out of his open school trunk. 

Sirius surveyed the single bed with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips, and pulled his wand from his hair, letting the black curls tumble down around his shoulders. “I don’t know much about transfiguring furniture, but bunkbeds can’t be too hard, can they?” 

But as he opened his mouth and pointed his wand, Remus reached out and knocked his wrist, the hawthorn wood clattering to the floor, “Sirius, we can’t use magic outside of school!” 

He looked startled for only a moment before he seemed to remember himself. “Bullocks. How do muggle borns get anything done?” And then, slightly alarmed, “How am I going to unshrink my trunk?!” 

“I have extra clothes,” Remus snorted, going to his cupboard and pulling out a pair of pyjama bottoms and another afghan, shaking it vigorously. “Here.” 

Sirius took the blanket and sleepwear and looked dubiously between the fabric in his hands and the small bed against the wall. Remus climbed in, not bothering to wait for Sirius, his exhaustion finally catching up with him

“I like to sleep against the wall,” he explained, scooting over to make enough room for Sirius on the narrow mattress, the slats of the bed frame creaking beneath him. 

Remus closed his eyes as soon as his head hit the pillow and he could hear Sirius kicking off his shoes and trousers. The bed groaned again as it dipped under the weight of another body, but when the light remained on and Sirius hadn’t laid down, Remus cracked an eye open to see Sirius staring at the bedside lamp and slowly waving his hand in front of it, as if trying to will it off.

“Turn off the light,” Remus encouraged, body heavy.

A moment of silent stillness before, “_ how _?”

The moment was so endearing that he couldn’t help the wane smile that broke over his face. He couldn’t even be irritated as he sat up in bed and leaned over to show Sirius the switch on the cord. He watched in amusement as Sirius turned the light off and on several times before being satisfied with the new skill, muttering a chuffed, “fancy that,” under his breath. 

Finally, after what felt like the longest and weirdest night, they both lay down in the newly dark room, wrapped in lovingly knitted blankets as the songs of crickets and frogs slowly gave way to the chirrup of early morning birds heralding the arrival of the sun, just beyond the horizon. 

“Remus?” Came a whisper in the dark.

“Mm?” He responded, dancing on the periphery of a new dream. 

“Thank you,”

Unthinkingly, like a reflex he had learned from the times James had slept in his bed when he was in need of comfort and safety, he flung an arm out over his best mate, took a deep breath, and let sleep claim him. 

______________

Remus was soon acquainted with how ill equipped pureblood wizards of notable names were to functioning in blue collared muggle society. After spending several days with Sirius trying to accomplish simple household tasks, he decided that muggle studies should be a compulsory subject for all students raised in wizarding homes. 

He never realised how endlessly entrancing a gas hob would be, or how befuddling an electric iron was. Sirius struggled to understand the purpose of the fated letter slot in the front door, if not for guests to whisper through introductions to the house. The washing machine proved a fascinating learning curve one rainy morning in the cellar, as Remus showed Sirius which clothing items needed to be washed on what setting, and which could and could not be tumble dried. And the endearing sight of Sirius carefully folding knitted sweaters lodged itself uncomfortably behind Remus’s sternum. 

Though, the argument about keys and locks went down as one of their most heated in their entire friendship. 

“That can’t possibly deter crime!” Sirius sputtered as Remus turned the key in the lock, on their way out the door for their first shopping endeavour, having eaten their way through the remainder of scant food supplies. “You’re just going to leave your house to the wills of a simple locking mechanism?! No magical reinforcements? No _ fidelius _ charm? _ Nothing _?! Remus, why not just leave the door wide open, with a list of all your valuables on the letter box!”

“For Morgana’s sake, Sirius,” Remus had groaned, feeling in his pocket for the crumpled paper bills he had dug out from under his mattress, “this is how muggles protect themselves. Other muggles can’t use magic to break in.”

Deadpan, Sirius reached down and grabbed a rock from side of the path, “Two galleons says, this very non magical rock can break your front window and I can get inside—”

“I swear to fucking Godric, Sirius—” Remus groused, grabbing his wrist and pulling him towards the road and to the shops in town.

Sirius had, not surprisingly, charmed the shopkeepers with his genuine intrigue of muggle novelties and his attempts at blending in. 

“Wonderful soda machine, you have there,” he had told Mr. Harris at the corner shop one day, to the burly man’s great confusion. Remus had snorted so hard he had to duck down an aisle to pretend to be looking for biscuits so as not to make Sirius feel foolish. 

He delighted in showing his friend simple pleasures of the muggle world, like the gumball machines outside the hardware store, the shop full of televisions showing endless loops of episodes from _ Upstairs, Downstairs _, the charity shop that sold second hand clothes, and Sirius’s new muggle fascination, the mechanic’s workshop.

The first time they had walked past it, Sirius had stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of someone kicking the thundering engine of a motorcycle to life, and his eyes lit up at the sight of some bearded gent rolling out into the street, straddling the great thing, before rocketing down the lane and out of sight.

After that, he made Remus stop at the open garage door of the mechanic every time they walked through town, watching as old men in greasy dungarees leaned deep into the engines of rusty carriages. Remus loved the transfixed look on Sirius’s face as they crept as close as they dared to the working mechanics, peering over shoulders and into the confusing mess of machinery. 

In the interim, Lyall had come and gone several times, sometimes leaving groceries, other times just changing his clothes before running out, and twice the boys woke up to find him asleep on the couch before slipping out the front door and off to town. Lyall either hadn’t noticed the extra body in the house, or didn’t have the strength to care. 

Then, one fateful afternoon, Remus decided it was safe to leave Sirius home alone for a few hours while he went to work at the ice cream parlour. It turns out, it was one of Remus’s more poorly made decisions, but he hadn’t realised all of the potential in leaving Sirius unattended with his dad’s beer and access to a garden shed full of muggle tools. 

Remus, who had been trussed up in his striped apron and paper hat, was ushered out the door by Sirius. Sirius, who swore very convincingly up and down that he was perfectly content to stay home alone, and that, no, he absolutely would not get up to no good in Remus’s absence. Those famous last words had Remus preoccupied his entire shift, and he was quick to clock out when his manager, Karl, told him to bugger off home.

_ What a load of bollocks _, Remus thought to himself when he came down the lane that evening, the dusk settling around him and the nighttime songs rising along with the unmistakable panicked mutterings of his friend, interspersed with what Remus was sure was the disgruntled sputtering of his grandad’s ancient lawn mower. 

He came around to the back of the house to find Sirius, shirtless, barefoot and slick with sweat, chasing the old lawn mower in circles through the unevenly cut grass, a look of pure bewilderment on his face.

“Oh— Hello Remus,” he panted, eyes wide with embarrassed concern when he noticed his arrival, “you’re home early—” he tried robustly to sound as if he had everything under control. 

Remus stood there watching, his concern being quickly replaced by amused exasperation, his striped apron slung over his shoulder. 

“How was your day then?” Sirius asked, still panting, still chasing, still refusing to openly acknowledge that he was clearly in over his head. 

“Thrilling, and you?” He offered, smothering his laughter as Sirius tripped over his own feet when the mower hit a mound and veered wildly to the left, leaving Sirius to scramble after it like a dog on the chase. 

“Oh you know— _ ouch _ — just— _ shit _— trying to contribute to the household—” he was heaving as he stepped on errant stones and sticks, finally catching up to the mower. “Haha! Got you, ya bastard!” He shouted as he lunged forward at the great clunky machine and finally kicked the gears to turn off.

Moving forward to help Sirius drag the mower back into the garden shed, he picked up the sickly, sweet smell of his dad’s ale mingled with the scent of petrol and sweat. 

“Had some libations, did you?” He asked, not bothering to mask his disapproval as they heaved and pushed the great thing into the shed and closed the door.

Sirius had the grace to look slightly abashed as he shrugged, his cheeks pink and eyes soft from the clear overindulgence. “You could join me, though you have some catching up to do.” He tried to jest and Remus bristled a bit. 

“I don’t like to drink, really. Especially my dad’s stuff.” 

“Well, do you like to eat? Because I’m starved.”

Remus huffed an aggrieved sigh and together they walked inside to make beans and toast, mostly so Remus could watch Sirius try and use a can opener in a state of inebriation and yell some more about the lack of trustworthiness of toasters. And mowers, though that was said with a fondness that was unmistakable. Like Sirius had met another rule breaker and quite liked it’s work. 

When asked how on earth Sirius managed to get the mower running, when it had, in fact, not been used in years, he pulled a weathered and water damaged manual out of his back pocket and laid it on the table. “Found this in the shed, under an old toolbox.” He shrugged. “Thought I should start learning how muggle stuff works.” 

Remus was filled with an odd sense of pride and affection and he leaned over to throw more toast on Sirius’s plate. 

______________

During the second week of Sirius’s stay, three things happened. 

One, Peter had finally sent the rather lumpy parcel containing their discombobulated map to Remus with a letter of apology for the fact that he couldn’t figure out how to reorder it properly. It also looked as though there were several new stains on the east wing fourth floor, and again on the fifth. 

But, it was no matter, really, and Remus and Sirius gleefully took the pages and scraps of string and paper out of the canvas bag and began to tack it up on the wall above the bed, filled with ideas and excitement. 

“Honestly, what did Peter _ do _ to this?” Sirius griped as he examined a severely torn and messily spell-o-taped drawing of several rooms that neither of them could properly identify. “Is this meant to be the hall behind the tapestry of the nuns?”

“Or maybe it’s the hall to the left of the Ravenclaw tower?” Remus offered, turning the page upside down. 

Sirius set it to the side, muttering that he’d need to owl Peter and ask what in Merlin’s name he meant before getting up to help Remus. Remus, who had fallen clean off the bed trying to tack up the top left corner of the map. 

Sirius was weak with laughter as Remus groaned from the floor, doubling over and getting caught in the mess of strings that attached themselves to points on the map, before he too tripped and fell, ripping half of the mismatched map off the wall. 

The second thing was that, one morning, while Sirius and Remus were doing the dishes and throwing fistfuls of soapy suds at one another, making an absolute mess of the kitchen, Lyall arrived home at a decent and proper hour. 

He came into the kitchen, his arms laden with groceries, his eyes red and apologetic. When Remus and Sirius noticed him in the doorway, they froze their antics and looked nervously at one another. 

“Hey dad,” Remus said, moving forward to help unpack the groceries, wiping his hands off on his threadbare denims, “you remember Sirius, my friend, from the ministry last year?”

Lyall surveyed him with grudging resignation and nodded. “Indeed. How do you do, Sirius?” 

“Well, sir, thank you, and you?” Sirius replied, bowing deeply before standing straight and proper, his voice polite and false and all wrong to Remus’s ears. 

Remus, ladened with an odd sense of anxiety and nerves, quickly packed away the groceries and tried to clean the kitchen as Lyall and Sirius became acquainted. 

And, to Remus’s astonishment, Sirius slowly won his dad over with well placed comments and odd pureblood humour that Remus had never understood. It was in that moment, watching the interaction between his friend and his dad, that it struck him so severely that they came from the same world. Maybe his dad had not come from as wealthy and old and powerful a family as where Sirius came from, but cut from the same cloth, nonetheless. They had a shared history and culture. Traditions, even. It was a world that Lyall never invited Remus into, or perhaps, one from which he had shielded his son. 

The thought twisted something ugly and uncomfortable in his gut. 

Lyall, not long after chuckling at a joke about a gnome and tree sprite that Sirius had told, reached into the fridge for a bottle of ale. Straightening up and moving off to the living room, Remus knew, to put his feet up on the couch, said quite matter of factly, “We’ll be putting Gran’s house up for sale this summer, and if it’s alright with you boys, I could use your help packing things up.” 

And, with really no fuss at all, Sirius and Remus became ‘the boys’, and Sirius was folded rather neatly into the tapestry of the house. 

The third thing that happened was that Remus finagled a job for Sirius at the ice cream parlour. This happened only after running out of places to successfully leave him, unattended, which seemed, though always amusing in retrospect, to always lead in directions that very nearly tore the statute of secrecy in twain, and left Remus’s nerves frayed and frantic. 

Sirius had been chased off from the mechanics after asking too many questions, and the arcade didn’t appreciate moneyless loiterers. The library had become the safest option, but Sirius’s profound lack of understanding of muggle concepts and brazen confidence to try and learn about them had the librarian asking him far too many probing questions. 

When Remus came to pick him up after one of his shifts, he found Sirius in the middle of a pile of mixed muggle fantasy and physics books. When he saw Remus approaching he beckoned, “Remus— Remus, mate—” holding out a copy of _ The Many Worlds Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics _ in one hand, and _ Dracula _ in the other, an incredulous and slightly mad look in his eyes, he said much too loudly, “One of these is considered fiction by muggles— guess which one.”

Remus had ushered Sirius out of the library, whispering hushed apologies about the mess to the librarian, who had observed them with shrewd concern and disapproval as they made their way from the building. 

The next day, after asking Lyall to unshrink Sirius’s trunk, Remus had dragged a well dressed Sirius in front of his manager and eagerly proclaimed that he had found the most suitable new employee for working the register. 

Karl, a tall and paunchy man that reminded Remus of an overgrown garden gnome, without the charm, eyed Sirius speculatively. Sirius, clasped his hands politely behind his back, stood there in newly shined shoes, and a smart button down with far too many buttons and smart black trousers. He seemed far too posh for the gleaming brightness of black and white enamel decorated ice cream parlour, augmented so by the shabbiness Remus exhibited. 

Karl’s eyes lingered on the messy bun stuck through with his wand, hidden in plain sight. Though to Karl, Remus was sure, it must have seemed like an oddly placed decorative hair pin. 

“Any experience running a register, kid?” He asked, with his arms still crossed and eyebrow raised, as if guarding the entryway to his refrigerated kingdom.

Unflustered, Sirius responded smoothly, “while, I am unfamiliar with this particular style of _ register _ of which you speak, I have much experience with handling large sums of money and accompanying transactions through my involvement in the family business.”

Remus barely resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and groan loudly, but it was a near miss. 

Karl furrowed his brow, and observed Sirius a moment longer before sighing. “Whatever, kid. I’ll put you on the schedule with Remus, here. You’re in charge of training him.” He said to Remus before shuffling off to the back room where he sat and listened to the radio most days. 

Once Karl was safely out of sight, they did an aggressive and protracted victory dance until a group of giggling girls came in and disrupted them. 

Together, they scuttled behind the counter, Sirius rolling over the top of it in his excitement. Remus tossed him an apron and a paper hat and began the process of explaining the mechanics of a register, an activity punctuated by Sirius’s antics and shameless flirting with any customer that walked through the doors. 

______________

_ June 21, 1974 _

On the morning of the solstice, Remus woke up to Sirius tugging on his foot with far more enthusiasm than he thought the earliest hours of the morning warranted. 

“Whas’happenin’?” Remus grumbled, trying to reach for his blanket to pull over his head. The sun was barely a thought on the horizon. 

“It’s the solstice!” Sirius announced, ripping the blanket away. “Get your sorry ass up! We have things to do, gods to appease, rituals to be had, wood to collect!”

“What the fuck—” Remus muttered, finally sitting up. “What are you on about?” 

“Let’s _ go _!” 

Sirius stood there impatiently tapping his foot and huffing in a long suffering sort of way as Remus threw some clothes on with half lidded eyes and stomped off to perform his morning ablutions. 

“Alright, alright, I’m ready.” Remus muttered, coming out of the bathroom. 

“Not yet, come here.” And Remus was startled to see Sirius had drawn runic markings under his eyes in a delicate pattern, and was coming straight towards him with a stick of charcoal. 

“Sirius, what in _ Godric— _“ he tried to fend him off to no avail. 

“Hold still.” Sirius demanded, and Remus’s face was being squished by Sirius’s left hand, as his right carefully pulled the charcoal across his skin. 

“What is happening?” Remus managed to mutter between his compressed cheeks. 

“Solstice,” was the very unhelpful answer he received. 

They marched out to the birch wood in the early morning light that barely lit the path before them. The lights on the road were still glowing and the birds had only just begun their morning song. 

Sirius had found rope in the back shed, and with it he and Remus collected fallen wood and sticks in mostly silence and organised them into neat bundles. Remus could hear the scurrying of the inhabitants of the wood and smiled when he could smell a hare nearby, just on the other side of a great oak. 

“I hope Freya’s okay, wherever she went,” he said absentmindedly, thinking of the graceful hare and soft fur, adding to the stack of bundles and pulling another length of rope for the next. 

Sirius stilled and looked at him, studying him carefully. 

“What?” Remus asked. 

“Somehow, I don’t think she is,” Sirius finally said with a sigh, tying his bundle together. 

“Why not?” Remus asked, feeling suddenly irritated and sad. 

Sirius shrugged noncommittally, like he was weighing his words. 

“What do you know that I don’t?” Remus demanded, his arms hanging uselessly at his side. He had been crushed to learn Peter and James had let her run away, and consoled himself with the thought that she had found her fellows in the forbidden forest. That she was happy and wild and free.

“I don’t know anything. Not for sure, anyway. It’s just a hunch.” Sirius said, still focused on finding sticks. 

“And?” 

Sirius sighed heavily. “I think Pete did something, to be honest.” 

“Like he let her go? Or put her outside? Why would he do that, I was happy to keep her.”

“No, I mean—” Sirius rubbed his eyes, “when I came back, Freya was already gone. But, I found a bunch of bloody hand towels with fur in bathroom in the rubbish bin, and then Pete asked to borrow my knife in potions—”

“No way— how could you think that?” Remus looked at him in disbelief. 

Sirius shrugged again. “Maybe I’m wrong. But, what else would that be from?”

“Why would he do that?” Remus asked, feeling sick to his stomach, refusing to accept it. Peter was so soft and sweet, how could he even be capable of that. 

“I don’t know, mate.” Sirius offered, trying to be consoling. “But, he seemed pretty worried about interfering with her sacrifice when we waited for the golden egg. You know his mum is weird about fortune telling stuff. A lot of old wizarding families are. It’s instilled in a lot of us from a young age—”

“There’s gotta be another explanation.” Remus stated emphatically. “Pete wouldn’t do that. He _ couldn’t _—”

“Maybe. Just— don’t mention it to James, okay? Let’s get this wood back.” And with that they dropped the subject and began the laborious process of carrying their many bundles of sticks back to the house where they stacked them in the backyard, ready for their solstice fire. 

Before they constructed their solstice pyre, Sirius said they had to first collect an assortment of offerings. Flowers, feathers, more sticks, bits of moss, rocks, whatever took their fancy, wherever their magic led them. 

“Is this what you do with your family?” Remus asked him, finding the ritual of collecting things incredibly soothing and satisfying in a way he couldn’t explain, admiring a particularly lovely feather he’d found. 

“Well— no not really. I learned this more from Professor Shafiq.”

They spent the rest of the day making floral wreaths and mini bouquets, dried grass effigies and carving runes into bits of the firewood. Sirius told him stories and tales of the old gods, old rituals, and the old traditions, lost even to the pureblood lines, in his words, bastardised by the love of power and malice, control and gold. 

He explained that the solstice was a celebration of the longest day of the year, the day of the sun. The day the summer handed itself over to the coming fall as the days would wane from this fullness they were celebrating. He explained how Shafiq had helped him and guided him back towards the ancient flow of magic, helped him see that it was more than just a lexicon of spellwork, of perfectly memorised theories. He pointed him to ancient texts in the libraries that shed light on their ancestral practices, forgotten by time. 

It was elemental and sentient, woven in their bones and ready to be called on. That these celebrations and rituals were less about doing things per step by step guide and fancy imported ingredients from far away places, but by truly celebrating the world around you and the magic within, most directly by practicing gratitude and honing intentions, gathering from the land under one’s feet and feeling the change of the season in your soul. 

After they were done preparing, they cooked as much of a feast as the two of them could muster. Remus gathered some sorrel, dandelion leaf, and clover for a salad and Sirius picked wild strawberries from behind the shed. They plated up jam and toast, apples and peanut butter, some leftover roast beef and potatoes, and some fancy chocolates that Remus didn’t want to know how or from where Sirius had acquired. 

As the day began to cool in the late afternoon, they set about building their pyre. Remus began to understand what Sirius had said about listening to the promptings of your magic to guide you in setting about your ritual, because as he stood there, idly watching Sirius, wondering what to do, he felt a faint tug, deep in his core. 

With that prompting, he gathered up an armful of their bouquets and began placing them in wide concentric circles around the pyre, without thinking about why— just doing. 

“Hope the neighbours don’t notice.” Remus said, as he walked backwards with his armful of flowers, placing them down in even intervals. 

“It’s just a little fire, what could go wrong?” Sirius asked, and Remus immediately looked at him with alarm. 

“So much, Sirius. _ So _ much could go wrong.” 

Sirius barked a laugh, wild and free and so endeared to his friend’s worries. With his newfound skill of lighting matches, he lit the tinder and fed the small flame, helping it grow with bits and twigs and praise and thanks. They laid out a blanket with their feast and watched as the flames grew higher. 

Sirius taught him old chants and songs to celebrate and honour the season and the sun, and Remus could feel the magic swell in the flames and in the rippling air around them. It shimmered in the half light of the sun, traveling low on the horizon, and danced up his skin like a caress, like a warm breeze. 

In the firelight, the charcoal markings on Sirius’s face were smudged with sweat and his hair stood out wildly from the humidity, but his eyes were bright and his smile unburdened, and Remus found he couldn’t imagine a better way to spend an evening. 

They fed their small fire all through the night, telling stories and dreaming about a future free from the many troubles of their youth. 

______________

The next morning, Sirius received the first of several owls from his family. 

The absolutely terrifying eagle owl startled them both into silence from where they were sequestered in Remus’s haphazard bedroom, drawing more layers and details for the map. Sirius sat, frozen and pale at the sudden strigine appearance. 

Remus, eventually, was the one who got up to retrieve the letter from the judgemental strix before it took off without a backward glance, scratching his wrist in the process. 

Remus tried to hand Sirius the letter, whose voice wavered and admitted, “I can’t, you do it.”

So he did. He was startled to see that Sirius’s father’s words seemed disinterested, even on parchment, scrawled lazily and perfunctorily. 

_ Son of my name, _

_ Your mother was disappointed in your absence from the Solstice Gala at the Parkinson’s Estate. She has several suitable matches, for which your input is desired. Regulus performed admirably in your stead, he sends his regards. _

_ For the sake of a peaceable summer, do RSVP for the Malfoy wedding and the Goyle Summer Soiree. Your mother begs your presence. Summon Kreacher at your earliest convenience for robe fittings. _

_ Toujours Pur _

Remus reread the letter several times, before flipping it over to see if there was anything else. 

“You leave home without a word, are gone missing for near three weeks, and he doesn’t even ask where you are or if you’re okay?”

Sirius, who seemed to have been waiting for the explosion of a howler, let his shoulders sag in relief at the query. “To be fair, your dad didn’t know I was here for like two weeks too, so—”

“Still” Remus tutted. “Are you going to reply?”

“And say what?” 

Remus shrugged. “That you’re not going.”

Sirius pondered for a moment, looking young and uncertain and every bit the lost boy he was before he looked to Remus with worried eyes. “If I answer, I’ll say something horrendous. I can’t stand the thought of it.”

“You’re going to have to face it eventually.” Remus offered.

“Later. I’ll face it later.” Sirius said.

“I’ll write a response for you, in the meantime, if you want?”

“Be my guest.” Sirius acquiesced, seeming relieved. “Do you think you can make it sound like me?”

Remus pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and grabbed his favourite muggle pen, and said, “Noooo problem.” 

_ Dearest Father, _

_ I am unable to make this summer’s functions, owing to my busy schedule and newfound responsibilities in my most recent financial endeavours. Send mother my most profound regrets. _

“There,” he said, well pleased with his response, “we just have to wait for Claudia.”

______________

_ July 3, 1974 _

The night was thick and humid and Remus was painfully uncomfortable in his body. The boys had thrown the blankets and all decorum off the bed in their effort to keep comfortable and cool, splayed in their briefs, but to no avail. Remus had the bare skin of his back pressed up against the wall, trying to leech some of the coolness from it to calm his feverish skin. 

The nearly full moon was low in the sky, spilling its light in through the bedroom window, causing Sirius’s pale skin to glow, and Remus wondered why he found it so transfixing. 

With a great aggrieved sigh, Sirius rolled onto his back and looked over to see if Remus was awake. 

“It’s too hot.” He stated, rather unhelpfully. 

“It’s too bright.” Remus retorted, equally as unhelpful. His bones ached and his skin felt too tight. 

“How do muggles survive without cooling charms?” He asked, grabbing the mangled piece of parchment from Peter off the side table and began to fan himself. 

The disturbance of air caused the smell of skin and sweat to occlude Remus’s sense and he scrunched his eyes against it, his stomach twisting and swooping uncomfortably. 

“Stop that,” he snapped. 

“But, it’s hot!” 

“You smell!” 

“How _ dare _ — what in _ merlin _— I bathed not two hours ago!” Sirius sputtered, rapping the parchment against Remus. 

He yelped. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant! I just meant your smell is overwhelming.” Sirius protested wildly at this. “I mean—“ Remus groaned.“The moon— it makes everything overwhelming. You smell fine.”

His ego only slightly soothed, Sirius grumbled and turned on his side to face him. 

“What do you do for the moon here, anyways?” Sirius asked, looking a bit wary. “Your dad doesn’t lock you in the shed out back, does he?” 

He snorted. “No, he doesn’t lock me in the shed. He locks me in here.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, he empties the room and locks me in with magic. So you’ll probably have to sleep on the couch tomorrow.”

“What time is moonrise?”

“One. Though, if he’s not here by ten, then I have to make a plan.” He thought of the werewolves he had met, and the bit of parchment with the address Breena had given him shoved into his transfiguration textbook. 

“What kind of plan?” Sirius asked, curiously. 

“I’ll let you know if it comes to that.” He huffed.

Sirius nodded solemnly. “Do you want me to leave the house? Give you some privacy?” 

Remus thought about it for a moment, “No, it’s fine. So long as you don’t try and look through the window or anything. I don’t want anyone to see me like that.”

“Why not? I mean, I won’t, of course— just curious.”

Remus’s face twisted into a bit of an incredulous scowl. “Would you want the people you care about to see you become a monster?”

“Do you really think you’re a monster?” Sirius asked, his eyes soft and a bit sad. 

“What would you call it?” Remus scoffed, avoiding saying the truth he felt in his heart, that yes, he was a monster. 

Sirius cracked a bit of a smile, “your furry little problem.”

Remus couldn’t help the responding smile. “You’re daft.”

They fell into silence so long that Remus nearly fell asleep, when Sirius asked, “What’s it like?”

“Hmm?”

“Transforming, I mean. What does it feel like? Our textbooks make it seem like it’s a hellishly painful thing.”

“It is.” Remus agreed. “But, the transformation itself is quick. It’s the lead up that’s the worst.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what it feels like when you’re about to vomit? Or have explosive diarrhoea? Or— or like when you’re coming down with a terrible fever, and all of your bones hurt so badly, and your skin is sensitive and your hair follicles feel like needles, and—” he felt a bit breathless, and in the pause, Sirius’s foot came to rest against his. 

“Anyways, the nausea starts a few hours beforehand. And if it’s really bad, I’ll puke. But usually I can power through. But, it’s the constant salivating from the nausea that I hate.”

Sirius nodded his head like he understood.

“Then the closer the moon comes, the more I feel feverish and shaky. Like even now I feel so uncomfortable, and my skin is crawling, but it’s nothing compared to how I’ll feel tomorrow. Then, it reaches this crescendo of awful like the fever is about to break, or I’m about to empty my guts out and projectile vomit everywhere, or shit myself to death,” Sirius snorted appreciatively, “and that’s when, in an instant, it feels like all my bones break simultaneously, and my fur pushes out and the wolf comes to the surface. And then it’s over. I usually don’t remember much after that. Just bits and pieces. But the pain is usually gone.”

“You talk about it like it’s a different thing, like it’s not part of you.”

“I wish it wasn’t.” Remus said softly. 

“But, it is.” Sirius offered, consolingly. “Maybe you should try and be nicer to your wolf.”

Remus winced in a way he couldn’t explain and the sentiment sliced through him painfully. He took a deep breath, but didn’t respond to Sirius’s statement. He was worried what would come out if he opened his mouth. 

“We should get some sleep,” he finally said, turning over to face the wall when he could no longer take the look Sirius was giving him, full of sadness and understanding. 

A long time later, when the night had cooled and the moon had set, Remus awoke to Sirius’s arm wrapped around his middle, and his back against his thin chest. The wolf sighed in contentment, and human Remus, for once, agreed, scooting back into the embrace, sleepily seeking the comfort offered. 

______________

_ July 13, 1974 _

The days rolled on in the long hazy summer heat and the boys fell into a rhythm of sorts. They cleaned the house together in the mornings, generally picking up after Lyall, who could sometimes be found passed out on the couch, his weather beaten face grimacing, even in sleep. They did the shopping, usually with the money Remus had squirrelled away under his mattress and in his sock drawer, though sometimes Lyall would leave a discarded £10 note by the dented pink toaster. 

They spent quite a lot of time at the library, Remus swapping out his novels at a fast pace and Sirius ravenously devouring any and all books about muggle mechanics he could find. Sometimes they went walking in the woods, especially in the days before the full moon. They did their shifts at the ice cream parlour, where Sirius was charming and gregarious and over the top, and where everyone couldn’t help but be captivated by him and the way he seemed so entirely charmed by something as ordinary as ice cream. 

The letters from Sirius’s family continued to find him, and more often then not, he did not read them. But, on the occasions he did, he handed them to Remus and let him decide what to write in return. 

And, when it was much too hot to do anything else, they lay in the shaded backyard in the still uneven grass on blankets in the breeze, reading books and, much to Remus’s begrudging resignation, drinking bottles of stolen ale.

Training Sirius at working the muggle machinery in the ice cream parlour proved to be endlessly amusing and surprising. Sirius was hungry for knowledge and determined not to let the machinery and knobs make a fool of him. Late one night, Remus had even found Sirius awake on the floor, reading_ An Introduction to Circuitry _ by candlelight, and Remus couldn’t help but be impressed at his fortitude and dedication. 

After the initial struggle through the groundwork of using the register, and swearing to Sirius that it was incapable of vindictive retribution, owing to the fact that it was, as all muggle things are, inanimate, Sirius eventually settled into his new job. 

The two other employees, Gary and Nedrid, Remus had worked with since his first summer and remembered them from his days in primary school. They were two years older than Remus, and had always been considered quite popular, even back then when popularity was an amorphous and poorly defined thing. Whereas Remus had kept to himself and his books and drawings, Gary and Nedrid had run the schoolyard with an iron fist and a cruel disposition. 

Nowadays, as they loved to brag, they went on to a boarding school called Smeltings in the northwest of London and came back every summer with larger and larger egos to match their growing height and broadening frames. They shared the same crude humour and lewd jokes, and, oftentimes, the same lingering gazes on the younger women of their small, shared town. They enjoyed the same hobbies of putting even smaller children in fetid dumpsters or dunking their heads in toilets, or, given the opportunity, punching anyone who looked even a little bit queer.

Overall, Remus found them quite intolerable. 

He hadn’t said anything to Sirius about Gary or Nedrid and the ways he hated being around them because Remus didn’t want to rock the rather tenuously afloat boat in which he’d found himself. Sirius, as ignorant as he was in the ways of basic muggle customs and daily habits, knew how people worked in a way that transcended the boundaries between the magical and muggle world, and Remus felt sure that he would see right through their blatant pigheadedness. 

Unsurprisingly, only a week into his job, Sirius had Gary and Nedrid eating out of his hand, as it were. He was being invited to parties, or out to the drive-in, and once, in something of a pleadingly insistent tone, out to Gary’s parent’s summer home for a weekend. 

On his third day of work, a girl with twinkling green eyes and curly hair had given Sirius her number after serving her a fortified helping of double chocolate ice cream and caramel sauce with a wink and a smile. Gary had whistled, low and impressed and dripping in envy, as the glass door tinkled and the girl walked out, giggling with her friends. Sirius made a show of folding a clean serviette and placing it into his breast pocket, much to the riotous laughter of Nedrid, the berk. 

Remus, meanwhile, continued toiling away in the background, mixing the base for mint chocolate chip to pour into the ice cream maker, and feeling nettled as sweat dripped down his brow. 

“C’mon, Sirius, our mate’s swiped a few shares of kilbeggan, we’re going to the park tonight, you should join us.” Gary pushed, for the umpteenth time that weekend, so enamoured as he was by Sirius’s confidence and shining personality. “Who knows, that pretty thing might be there, too,” he tempted.

“What do you say, Remus?” Sirius asked, lounging against the counter, sounding bored and unimpressed. “Fancy a drink in the woods?” 

Remus rolled his eyes, and saw clearly that neither Gary or Nedrid were pleased that Sirius bothered asking, owing to the fact that Remus was neither cool nor interesting.

“We’ve got an early morning tomorrow, so sorry.” Remus replied, his voice thick with mocking sympathy. 

“You heard him, gents,” Sirius said apologetically, pushing himself off the counter to help Remus pour the liquid ice cream into the machine, “Mr. Lupin says we have an early morning.” 

As apparent punishment for refusing the invitation, Remus and Sirius were left to close down and lock up, with orders to scrub every available surface. 

Gary smirked as he bid them good evening, turning the open sign to closed and shutting the door behind him. 

“I see why you don’t fancy spending time with them,” Sirius offered, dragging the mop bucket full of sloshing soapy water out to the middle of the parlour, “they’re a bunch of wankers.”

“I guess Nedrid’s not so bad—” Remus sighed, trying to be kind, but Sirius wasn’t having any of it. 

“_ Wankers _.” He reiterated with gusto and Remus laughed appreciatively. “Put on some music, won’t you?”

Remus flicked on the radio behind the counter and tuned it to a station he knew to play good sets at this time of night. They listened to a jingle about a dry cleaners and then a PSA about public transport safety before the jaunty chords of a very familiar song started. 

When he looked up it was to see Sirius transfixed in the middle of the parlour, with a mop in hand, the floor between them wet and soapy, staring at Remus with a wildly inappropriate and concerning smile, moving his eyebrows in time to the music of _ Bad Moon Rising _. Gods, he even started waltzing with the mop. The horrors. 

All of which, of course, forced Remus to slink to the floor behind the counters, grumbling with the overwhelming realisation that Sirius would be singing this song at him every chance he could for the rest of his miserable, wolfish life. 

_________________

_ July 14, 1974 _

The first time the boys went to pack and clean at Remus’s gran’s, he was yet again confronted with holes in Sirius’s knowledge about muggle life. Getting on the train that morning had been another learning curve for the both of them, as Sirius had tried, very surefooted and enthusiastically, to show Remus how to jump a turnstile and Remus, very exasperated and then a bit nervous, tried to explain that you were supposed to _ pay _ for your transport, and things like turnstile jumping were, in fact, _ illegal _. 

At the end of a very pointed and affronted argument from both sides, Sirius grudgingly acquiesced to allow Remus to buy their tickets, which was fortuitous as a rather burly and uncouth looking security guard had wandered over and begun to survey them with decided scrutiny. 

On the short train ride, Sirius had, thankfully, behaved quite well after this. 

“This is where you grew up?” Sirius asked, looking around the little town, up and down its cobbled lanes as they made their way from the station. 

Remus nodded and pointed across the main road, “Down there, on Hamlet drive is a cottage with elderberry trees out front. That’s where I was born, right in the sitting room. Mum had such a fast labour the midwife didn’t make it and gran delivered me.”

Sirius smiled. His hair was pinned up as usual with his wand and he was wearing a used, oversized, black and white Queen t-shirt and black denims. When Sirius received his very first paycheque, he stared in near disbelief at the envelope of money for a full minute before dashing out the door and straight to the charity shop on the corner. 

Sirius reached up to adjust his hair and Remus could see the runes of _ jera _ and _ raido _ written on the inside of Sirius’s wrist. A habit he had developed over the last few weeks. 

In fact, Sirius had taken up drawing runes on a great many things, as Remus was beginning to find out. He found _ ahwaz _ carved into a bar of soap in the bathroom just last week, and a tiny _ elhaz _ drawn on the toaster with what looked like smudged chalk. Several symbols Remus didn’t recognise were drawn on rocks with charcoal around the front and back door, and _ thurisaz _ had been drawn on several mechanical components, including the lawn mower and his mom’s old broken down yellow beetle in the garage. 

He’d even caught Sirius carving runes into the handle of his own wand. He’d been cagey and scowled quite a lot when Remus had asked about it, so he had let it go and let Sirius run amok with his charcoal and his new penchant for labelling. 

The tour of his gran’s house was relatively uneventful until they stepped out into the back garden. As Remus was telling him stories of his gran and how he loved to spend time in the vegetable patch, leaving gifts for the fae, Sirius stuck his arm out and turned to him with supercilious eyebrows. 

“She left gifts? For the _ fae _?” He asked, sounding horrified. 

“Yeah, well, my gran didn’t know they were real, it’s just a thing she did.” Remus shrugged, not understanding what the big deal was. 

“Merlin’s beard, Remus, how are you going to sell this house with fae contracts on it? No one would buy it! The listing would be a nightmare.” He stepped off the stoop and began to closely investigate the garden beds, with a shrewd eye. “Have you gotten a solicitor with experience in fae negotiations involved?”

“Sirius, we’re selling it to muggles—“

“How is that _ ethical _?”

“They don’t believe in fairies—” he tried, to which Sirius snorted in disbelief. 

“There’s fairy magic everywhere! It’s a practical infestation!” He announced loudly, gesturing broadly to the overgrown bed of volunteer potatoes and peas gone to seed. 

It took several hours to talk Sirius back into the house and to begin packing, as Sirius refused to touch anything without reading the fae contract that his gran had signed. This caused Remus to have to explain in no less than seventeen different ways that muggles did not sign physical contracts with fairies, and that whatever deal was between them, must have ended when his gran died, and also was never in writing, since she’d never known they existed. 

They came back to his gran’s house the following weekend, continuing to pack, clean, take inventory, and separate what they were going to keep and what they were going to sell or donate. With each passing hour, Sirius’s suspicion that Remus’s gran was a rogue witch or exiled squib, grew larger still. 

“Mate,” Sirius deadpanned, his thumb pointing back at the wall paper in her bedroom. “She was a Hufflepuff. Had to be.” 

“Just because she has yellow badgers on her wall, does not mean she was a witch!” Remus said in exasperation, having had this argument several times and in several varying permutations by now. 

“Think about it, Remus!” Sirius pushed. “Maybe your gran was magical, but your mum was a squib! Or maybe your gran was a squib and she was sent off to live in the muggle world by her magical family! The evidence is overwhelming—”

“The _ evidence _” Remus said with air quotes, “is entirely circumstantial and just proves your confirmation bias. You’re delusional.”

Sirius grumbled and went back to emptying a bookshelf, until he noticed _ The Complete Book of Magic and Witchcraft _ by Kathryn Paulsen and shouted in frustration, throwing it right at Remus’s head. Next he found _ Mastering Witchcraft: A Practical Guide for Witches, Warlocks and Covens _by Paul Huson, followed by several tarot decks, a bag of hand carved runes, and what looked to be a handwritten guide to working with fairies. Each new discovery elicited a louder yell of victory than the last, and soon Remus was doubled up with laughter on the floor, being pelted by muggle books on the occult. 

At the end of the day, satisfied with their work, they went to look at the garage to prepare themselves for what they’d have to accomplish the following week in order to ready everything for the estate sale. 

The little garage was small and dusty with no working lights and the old door required both of them to hoist it up its rusty track. Walking inside, they found gardening tools, an old radio, some boxes of books and files, and in the corner beneath a canvas sheet, a motorcycle. 

Sirius whistled loud and appreciative, surveying the newly uncovered black bike with something that looked a bit like reverence, and Remus couldn’t help but smile. 

“Your _ grandmother _ rode this?” Sirius asked incredulously.

Remus laughed openly. “Good lord, no. It was my grandad’s. He died when I was about a year old. She couldn’t bear the thought of getting rid of it though.”

“I can see why,” he murmured, running his hand over the pristine leather seat as Remus rolled his eyes. 

“Okay, are you done caressing the bike? Because we should get to the train.”

“Absolutely not,” Sirius said, swinging his leg over and sitting on it. “I am not done here. Go on without me, I’ll be fine.”

Remus snorted. “Okay Romeo, get off the bike. Let’s go.”

Sirius winged and whined and recovered the bike carefully with the canvas sheet before allowing Remus to guide him out of the garage and back towards the train station, with many longing looks over his shoulder as they left.

“What are you going to do with it?” He asked hopefully. 

“Dad wanted to sell it, but it’s not working and hasn’t been serviceable in years. I can’t imagine who’d buy it.” 

“I have four pounds and a quid. Please Remus.” Sirius said, digging in his pockets with a wholesome desperation, presenting a few paper notes and coins and shoving them at Remus. One of the quids was a sickle. 

“I’ll ask dad.” Remus said, unable to hide his laughter. 

Sirius was nearly skipping with glee down the lane, waxing poetic and demanding they get to the library at once, for he’d much reading to do. “Engines, Remus! Combustion! Imagine the possibilities!”

_______________

_ July 28, 1974 _

Eventually, the day came that they realised they were very overdue in sending off the map to James, who responded with a bombardment of letters when he realised that Sirius had been hiding out at Remus’s all summer, and that the two of them had made so much progress on illustrating the four stone passages behind the eight paintings that all contained several key components; a young peasant witch in the countryside, often with a great field or meadow in the background, holding a pitcher of milk and wearing unreasonably tiny shoes. 

The eight paintings they had found so far all hid stone stairways that seemed to spit the errant wanderer out randomly between the various portraits. It was a tricky bit of architecture to capture on the map, but Sirius and Remus had stayed up all night and eventually Remus had drawn a satisfactory schematic that seemed to meet all the relevant criteria. 

In any case, James had noticed. 

_ Dearest False Colluders, _

_ It is with deepest horror and enmity that I write to inform you both that your betrayal will not be forgiven. Imagine my surprise and despondency to see our map, our precious love child of parchment and magic and string, all neatly packed away with not one comrade’s mark— BUT TWO. TWO TRAITOROUS CONNIVING BASTARDS. _

_ And, here I sat, all these long weeks, ALONE, when I could have been there with you, UNSUPERVISED, for WEEKS. Why was I not informed?! The treachery! _

_ Can you imagine how much we could have accomplished? World domination, gents. It could have been ours. But instead, you’ve left Pete and I to the wayward drift of the slow passage of time, toiling away our summers, bereft of mischief or company. Do you know what I’ve been doing this week? Helping my mum pick out new curtains, you sneaky recreants! _

_ How dare you, sirs. How very dare you and your duplicitous schemes. _

_ But, in all seriousness, you’re lucky mum hasn’t shown up on your doorstep to drag you here by your ears. You might not be so lucky next summer. Enclosed are several food parcels, as I can only imagine what you’ve both been eating. I will send more in the week. _

_ With grudging forgiveness and no small amount of seething jealousy and horror, _

_ James _

Remus and Sirius were both doubled over laughing at James’s missives and indignation, and responded with a properly beseeching and imploring letter, begging his pardon and gracious forgiveness. And also requesting his urgent assistance with the network of passages that comprised the dungeons. James had an uncanny memory for where each potions storeroom, office and classroom was situated, and had even been working on discovering the location of the Slytherin dormitory before the end of last term. His knowledge of the deeper parts of the castle was, so far, unparalleled for a Gryffindor, except, perhaps, for Lily Evans. 

At the end, Sirius scribbled a thank you note to Mrs. Potter for the lovely food that would surely satisfy their bellies far better than the fare they’d survived on of late. 

When Claudia returned from her evening hunt, balancing precariously on the windowsill with her one foot neatly marring the eave, she seemed overjoyed to have a delivery and took off from the room without even waiting for a treat.

______________

Sirius was very confused by the notion of an estate sale. The concept of setting out folding tables on the walk in front of the house, and placing all of the items of one’s dearly beloved for the perusal of the masses, seemed distasteful and downright odd to him. 

“Well, what do you do with all of the stuff when someone dies in your family?” Remus asked, organising the porcelain dishware with the delicate lavender pattern on the table in the sun. 

“Most of it is considered heirloom items, and it stays within the directly descendant family.” Sirius explained. “The rest is parceled out in the will according to rank and descendant ancestor.”

“Well, my gran left everything to me and dad, and we can’t fit this stuff in our house. So, we’re selling it. Bring the chairs out?”

The Saturday was warm and breezy and, as soon as the neighbours realised what was happening, people came out of the woodwork to pick up items and haggle prices. 

Remus hated haggling, and tried to avoid it by putting little stickers on everything, hoping people wouldn’t argue about his asking prices. But, as he quickly learned, when it came to some people with their heart set on a tea set, arguing about money seemed unavoidable. 

Sirius, conversely, seemed to really come into his own setting prices and finagling his way to small bidding wars between rival neighbours. 

“Five pounds? For this ottoman? Gladys, my dear, how could you wound me like that? This piece is worth at least eight! Have you seen the stitching? It’s top notch. Why, I heard Glen over there say he’d pay ten! Didn’t you Glen?” 

Shooting a shifty glance at Glen, Gladys quickly handed over the eight pounds and hoisted her new ottoman down the road. 

_______________

_ August 2, 1974 _

Remus and Sirius managed to sell off most of the furniture, books, and dishware during the estate sale, and the rest they packed into a few boxes left beside the motorcycle in the garage. Lyall promised them that the following weekend, he would get the beetle out of the garage and drive them out there to pack up the rest of the house, leaving it ready for the real estate agent to start showing. 

He had been on his way out the door for the ministry when he explained this all to Remus, his face grey and shining with sweat, his hair stringy and lank, and his hand shook as it reached for the front door. Remus reminded his dad that the moonrise was near four on Sunday morning, and Lyall, distracted, nodded absently saying, “of course, Remus, see you later.”

It left an uneasy feeling in Remus all week, as each passing day his dad did not return home. The last moon Lyall had made it home only two hours beforehand and Remus had been wrecked with worry. 

Sirius had tried to talk him off the ledge, and even offered to perform the illegal underage magic necessary to confine him to his room if it came to that. 

This month, he wasn’t taking any chances. Saturday morning rolled around with no sign of Lyall in sight and Remus had made a decision. He dug into his trunk, and pulled out his transfiguration book, flipping it to the back cover and retrieving the copied address Breena had written on his hand all those months ago, hoping against hope that he wasn’t being foolish. 

Wearing his shabbiest clothes, he walked into the kitchen where Sirius was singing at the top of his lungs at a pan of bacon. Turning to Remus, Sirius continued to sing into a wooden spoon, unabashed, and began to dance, something that never failed to make Remus blush.

“Sirius—” Remus tried to interrupt. 

“Everybody’s feelin’ warm and bright, it’s such a fine and natural sight—” 

“Sirius— stop it,” Remus tried not to laugh, swatting the spoon away that Sirius was offering him to sing into. 

“Everybody’s dancin’ in the moonlight!” He screamed, grabbing Remus’s hand and trying to twirl him around. 

“We like our fun and we never fight, you can’t dance and stay uptight, it’s supernatural delight—”

“Oh my god, Sirius, you’re burning the bacon—” Remus warned, crouching to spin under his own arm, owing to how much shorter Sirius was to him. 

“Ah!” Sirius shouted, dropping Remus’s hand and running back to the hob to save the bacon. “Godric, Remus, stop distracting me with your singing and dancing, you’re such a menace.”

Rolling his eyes and smothering his laughter, he sat at the little table. “I have a favour to ask.”

“What’s up?” Sirius’s eyes hadn’t left his bacon and he was still humming and singing under his breath, his head nodding in time to the beat in his head.

He fiddled with his hands a bit, trying to piece together his insane plan. 

“Remus?” Sirius turned to him, looking curious and maybe a bit concerned. 

“I don’t want to wait for my dad for the moon tonight.” He said, gauging his response. 

“What do you mean?”

He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket and placed it on the table, his hand feeling sweaty and damp, the scars on his face pulling a bit. “I want to spend it with other werewolves.”


End file.
